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LIBRARY OF COl^GRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



REPRINTED PIECES 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE 
APPRENTICES 



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THE LONG VOYAGE. 



REPRINTED PIECES 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE 
APPRENTICES 

CHARLES DICKENS 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

CHARLES DICKENS THE YOUNGER 



WAV If i.^M^ 
ACMILLAN AND CO. "^ l^^Hl 



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M 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1896 

Ml rights reserved 



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Copyright, 1896, 
By MACMILLAN AND CO. 



Norfajooti IPresB 

J. S. Gushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 



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I I 

' i 

■T 

94 



REPRINTED PIECES 



REPRINTED PIECES 



BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

CHARLES DICKENS THE YOUNGER 




MACMILLAN AND CO. 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1896 

All rights reserved 



CONTENTS. 



(Those papers marked * were not included in the English volume of Reprints.) 



A Child's Dream of a Star . . . . 

* Perfect Felicity, In a Bird's-Eye View 
*rROM THE Raven in the Happy Family. — I 
The Begging-Letter Writer . 
A Walk in a Workhouse 

* From the Raven in the Happy Family. 
The Ghost of Art ..... 
The Detective Police .... 
Three "Detective" Anecdotes: 

I. — The Pair of Gloves 
II. — The Artful Touch 
III. — The Sofa 

* From the Raven in the Happy Family. 
A Poor Man's Tale of a Patent . 

A Christmas Tree 

"Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son" . 
A Monument of French Folly 
Bill-Sticking ...... 



II. 



Epsom 



On Duty with Inspector Field 



III. 



PAGE 

1 

4 

7 
11 
18 
24 
28 
34 

50 
54 
56 
59 
64 
70 
84 
88 
98 
109 
114 



XI 



xii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Our Watering-Place 125 

A Flight 133 

Otr School . . . .• 142 

* A Curious Dance Round a Curious Tree .... 148 

A Plated Article 157 

Our Honourable Friend 165 

Our Vestry 170 

Our Bore 176 

Lying Awake .......... 183 

Down with the Tide ........ 189 

The Noble Savage 197 

* Frauds on the Fairies ........ 203 

The Long Voyage 209 

*The Late Mr. Justice Talfourd 217 

Our French Watering-Place 219 

Prince Bull 231 

*TnE Thousand and One Humbugs 236 

* Smuggled Relations 254 

*The Great Baby 259 

Out of Town 266 

Out of the Season 272 

* Douglas Jerrold ......... 279 

* Leigh Hunt 289 

*The Late Mr. Stanfield 293 

* Robert Keeley ......... 294 

* Landor's Life .......... 300 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 

THE LONG VOYAGE Froiitispiece 

"detective" story — "the sofa" 57 

A poor man's tale of a patent 67 



Xlll 



INTRODUCTION. 

These pieces, reprinted from " Household Words " and '^ All 
the Year Eound," comprise, with the " Uncommercial Trav- 
eller " papers, almost all my father's contributions to those 
magazines, with the exception of the serial stories and Christ- 
mas numbers. These will be found in other volumes of the 
present complete edition of his works. 

I have thought it well to include several papers which do 
not appear in the English volume of "Eeprinted Pieces." 
Those which I have omitted are almost all very slight politi- 
cal or social squibs, the interest of which was merely of a 
temporary nature and has now altogether- evaporated. 

The papers, which range in date from 1850 to 1869, are 
here printed in chronological order, and not, as in the 
English edition, hap-hazard. It seems to me useful always 
to be able to compare the later with the earlier work of a 
great writer — just as it is extremely interesting to compare 
these " Reprinted Pieces " with the '' Sketches by Boz." 

Such remarks and explanations as I have thought it 
necessary to make about these papers I have prefixed to 
them individually in the form of notes. 

CHAELES DICKENS 

THE YOUNGER. 



NOTES. 



THE LONG VOYAGE. 

[Stories of shipwreck and disaster at sea always had a peculiar 
interest for Charles Dickens, and his library contained a great 
number of books on the subject. 

" The most beautiful and affecting incident " associated with a 
shipwreck was often in his mind. When " The Lighthouse " was 
produced at Tavistock House, in 1855, he set the story in ballad 
form to the music of Mr. George Linley's well-known song " Little 
Nell," and it was sung in the course of the piece by his eldest 
daughter. The verses ran as follows : — 

The Song of the Wreck. 

I. 

The wind blew high, the waters raved, 

A ship drove on the land, 
A hundred human creatures saved, 

Kneeled down upon the sand. 
Three score were drowned, three score were thrown 

Upon the black rocks wild. 
And thus among them, left alone, 

They found one helpless child. 

II. 

A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred. 

Stood out from all the rest. 
And gently laid the lonely head 

Upon his honest breast. 
And travelling o'er the desert wide, 

It was a solemn joy. 
To see them, ever side by side, 

The sailor and the boy. 

III. 

In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst, 

The two were still but one, 
Until the strong man drooped the first. 

And felt his labours done. 
Then to a trusty friend he spake, 

" Across the desert wide, 
O take this poor boy for my sake ! " 

And kissed the child and died. 



NOTES. xvii 



IV. 



Toiling along in weary plight, 

Through heavy jungle mire, 
These two came later every night 

To warm them at the fire. 
Until the captain said one day, 

" O seaman good and kind, 
To save thyself now come away. 

And leave the boy behind ! " 



The child was slumb'ring near the blaze 

" O captain, let him rest 
Until it sinks, when God's own ways 

Shall teach us what is best ! " 
They watched the whitened ashy heap, 

They touched the child in vain ; 
They did not leave him there asleep, 

He never woke again.] 

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 

[These are all actual personal experiences, " without a particle 
of exaggeration," John Forster says. 

In 1846 Charles Dickens had occasion to write to Mr. W. H. 
WiUs, at that time sub-editor of the " Daily News " : " Do look 
at the enclosed from Mrs. What's-her-name. For a surprising au- 
dacity it is remarkable even to me, who am positively bullied, and 
all but beaten, by these people. I wish you would do me the favour 
to write to her (in your own name and from your own address), 
stating that you answered the letter as you did, because if I were 
the wealthiest nobleman in England I could not keep pace with 
one-twentieth part of the demands upon me, and because you saw 
no internal evidence in her application to induce you to single it 
out for any especial notice. That the tone of this letter renders 
you exceedingly glad that you did so ; and that you decline, from 
rae, holding any correspondence Mdth her. Something to that 
effect, after what flourish your nature will." 

John Forster, in mentioning this essay, says that in describing 
" the extent to which he was made a victim by this class of swin- 
dler, and the extravagance of the devices practised on him," he 
"had not confessed, as he might, that for much of what he suffered 
he was himself responsible, by giving so largely, as at first he did, 
to almost every one who applied to him." Forster also tells the 
following story : " The Mendicity Society's officers had caught a 
notorious begging-letter writer, had identified him as an old of- 
fender against Dickens of which proofs were found on his person, 
and had put matters in train for his proper punishment; when the 
wretched creature's wife made such appeal before the case was 
heard at the police-court, that Dickens broke down in his capacity 
of prosecutor, and at the last moment, finding what was said of the 



xviii REPRINTED PIECES. 

man's distress at the time to be true, relented. ' When the men- 
dicity officers themselves told me the man was in distress, I desired 
them to suppress what they knew about him, and slipped out of 
the bundle (in the police office) his first letter, which was the greatest 
lie of all. For he looked wretched, and his wife had been waiting 
about the street to see me, all the morning. It was an exceedingly 
bad case, however, and the imposition, all through, very great 
indeed. Insomuch that I could not say anything in his favour, 
even when I saw him. Yet I was not sorry that the creature found 
the loophole for escape. The officers had taken him illegally with- 
out any warrant; and really they messed it all through, quite 
facetiously. ' " 

Even during his stay in Paris in 1846-184:7 the begging-letter 
writers found out " Monsieur Dickens, le romancier celebre," and 
waylaid him at the door and in the street as boldly as in Lon- 
don, "their distinguishing peculiarity being that they were nearly 
all of them ' Chevaliers de la Garde Imperiale de sa Majeste 
Napoleon le Grand,' and that their letters bore immense seals with 
coats of arms as large as five shilling pieces." 

Later (in 1868) Mr. Russell Sturgis, of the firm of Baring 
Brothers & Co., having been tried with a forged letter introducing 
an impostor, Charles Dickens wrote to him : " Believe me I am 
as much obliged to you for your generous and ready response to 
my supposed letter as I should have been if I had really written it. 
But I know nothing of it or of 'Miss Jeffries,' except that I have 
a faint impression of having recently noticed that name among my 
begging-letter correspondents, and of having associated it in my 
mind with a regular professional hand. Your caution has, I hope, 
disappointed this swindler. But my testimony is at your service 
if you should need it, and I would take any opportunity of bring- 
ing one of these vagabonds to punishment ; for they are, one and 
all, the most heartless and worthless vagabonds on the face of the 
earth." 

And see the article on " Tramps " in the " Uncommercial Trav- 
eller " and Mr. Boffin's experiences, after he came into his property, 
in "Our Mutual Friend."] 

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 

[Of this little story Charles Dickens wrote to John Forster in 
March, 1850: "Looking over the suggested contents of number 
two " — number two of " Household Words," that is — " at break- 
fast this morning, I felt an uneasy sense of there being a want of 
something tender, which would apply to some universal household 
know^ledge. Coming down in the railroad the other night (always 
a wonderfully suggestive place to me when I am alone), I was look- 
ing at the stars, and revolving a little idea about them. Putting 
now these two things together, I wrote the enclosed little paper, 
straightway." 

Forster adds : " His sister Fanny and himself, he told me long 



NOTES. xix 

before this paper was written, used to wander at night about a 
churchyard near their house, looking up at the stars ; and her early 
death had vividly reawakened all the childish associations which 
made her memory dear to him."] 

OUR WATERING-PLACE. 

[" Our Watering-Place " was the little village of Broadstairs 
in Kent, and, although the place has greatly increased in size, owing 
to the building of many houses near the railway, — there was no 
railway nearer than Ramsgate when this paper was written, — 
time has brought about but few changes in its sea-front and its 
queer little streets. 

There is at Broadstairs an excellent illustration of the manner 
in which delusive legends grow up on the smallest foundations. 
On the cliff overlooking the little pier, and close to the coast-guard 
station, stands Fort House, a tall and very conspicuous place which 
Charles Dickens rented during more than one summer. This is 
now known as Bleak House because, according to a tradition on 
which the natives positively insist, " Bleak House " was written 
there. Unfortunately for the legend, it is the fact that although 
" Bleak House " was written in many places, — Dover, Brighton, 
Boulogne, London, and where not, — not a line of it was written 
at Broadstairs. 

Writing to Professor Felton on the 1st of September, 1843, 
Charles Dickens described Broadstairs in the following words: 
" This is a little fishing-place ; intensely quiet ; built on a cliff, 
whereon — in the centre of a tiny semicircular bay — our house 
stands ; the sea rolling and dashing under the windows. Seven 
miles out are the Goodwin Sands (you've heard of the Goodwin 
Sands?) whence floating lights perpetually wink after dark, as if 
they were carrying on intrigues with the servants. Also there is 
a big lighthouse called the North Foreland on a hill behind the 
village, a severe parsonic light, which reproves the young and 
giddy floaters, and stares grimly out upon the sea. Under the 
cliff are rare good sands, where all the children assemble every 
morning and throw up impossible fortifications, which the sea 
throws down again at high water. Old gentlemen and ancient 
ladies flirt after their own manner in two reading-rooms and on 
a great many scattered seats in the open air. Other old gentlemen 
look all day through telescopes and never see anything. In a 
bay-window in a one-pair sits, from nine o'clock to one, a gentle- 
man with rather long hair and no neckcloth, who writes and grins 
as if he thought he were very funny indeed. His name is Boz. 
At one he disappears, and presently emerges from a bathing- 
machine, and may be seen — a kind of salmon-coloured porpoise 
— splashing about in the ocean. After that he may be seen in 
another bay-window on the ground floor, eating a strong lunch ; 
after that, walking a dozen miles or so, or lying on his back in the 
sand reading a book. Nobody bothers him unless they know he 



XX REPRINTED PIECES. 

is disposed to be talked to ; and I am told he is very comfortable 
indeed. He's as brown as a berry and they do say is a small 
fortune to the innkeeper who sells beer and cold punch. But this 
is mere rumour."] 

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 

["Our French Watering-Place" was Boulogne-sur-mer. 
Here Charles Dickens lived during the summers of 1853, 1854, 
and 1856, firstly, at the Villa des Moulineaux ; secondly, at the 
Villa du Camp de Droite ; and thirdly, again at the Moulineaux. 
Both houses belonged to " M. Loyal-Devasseur," whose real name 
was Beaucourt-Mutuel, and of whom Charles Dickens afterwards 
wrote: "I never did see such a gentle, kind heart." 

Charles Dickens thus described the Villa des Moulineaux in a 
letter to Forster : — 

" This house is on a great hill-side, backed up by woods of 
young trees. It faces the Haute Ville with the ramparts and the 
unfinished cathedral — which capital object is exactly opposite the 
windows. On the slope in front, going steep down to the right, 
all Boulogne is piled and jumbled about in a very picturesque 
manner. The view is charming — closed in at last by the tops of 
swelling hills; and the door is within ten minutes of the post- 
office, and within a quarter of an hour of the sea. The gar- 
den is made in terraces up the hill-side, like an Italian garden ; 
the top walks being in the before-mentioned woods. The best 
part of it begins at the level of the house, and goes up at the back, 
a couple of hundred feet perhaps. There are at present thousands 
of roses all about the house, and no end of other flowers. There 
are five great summer-houses, and (I think) fifteen fountains — 
not one of which (according to the invariable French custom) 
ever plays. The house is a doll's house of many rooms. It is 
one story high, with eight and thirty steps up and down — tribune- 
wise — to the front door : the noblest French demonstration I have 
ever seen, I think. It is a double house ; and as there are only 
four windows and a pigeon-hole to be beheld in front, you would 
suppose it to contain about four rooms. Being built on the hill- 
side, the top story of the house at the back — there are two stories 
there — opens on the level of another garden. On the ground floor 
there is a very pretty hall, almost all glass ; a little dining-room 
opening on a beautiful conservatory, which is also looked into 
through a great transparent glass in a mirror-frame over the 
chimney-piece ; a spare bedroom, two little drawing-rooms open- 
ing into one another, the family bedrooms, a bathroom, a glass 
corridor, an open yard, and a kind of kitchen with a machinery of 
stoves and boilers. Above, there are eight tiny bedrooms all 
opening on one great room in the roof, originally intended for 
a billiard-room. In the basement there is an admirable kitchen, 
with every conceivable requisite in it, a noble cellar, first-rate 
man's room and pantry ; coach-house, stable, coal-store, and wood- 



NOTES. xxi 

store; and in the garden is a pavilion containing an excellent 
spare bedroom on the ground floor. . The getting-up of these 
places, the looking-glasses, clocks, little stoves, all manner of fit- 
tings, must be seen to be appreciated." 

The Villa du Camp de Droite was higher up the hill, and a 
larger house than the " Moulineaux." Charles Dickens described 
it as " Amazing ! ! ! Range of view and au-, most free and delight- 
ful ; hillside garden, delicious ; field, stupendous." 

Here is another anecdote of Mr. Beaucourt-Mutuel : — 

" He is such a liberal fellow that I can't bear to ask him for 
anything, since he instantly supplies it, whatever it is. The things 
he has done in respect of unreasonable bedsteads and washing- 
stands, I blush to think of. I observed the other day in one of the 
side gardens — there are gardens on each side of the house too — a 
place where I thought the Comic Countryman " — this was a name 
Charles Dickens was giving just then to his youngest child — 
" must infallibly tip over and make a little descent of a dozen feet. 
So I said : ' M. Beaucourt ,' — who instantly pulled off his cap and 
stood bareheaded, — ' there are some spare pieces of wood lying by 
the cow-house ; if you would have the kindness to have one laid 
across here I think it would be safer.' ' Ah, mon dieu, sir,' said 
M. Beaucourt, 'it must be iron. This is not a portion of the 
property where you would like to see wood.' 'But ii^on is so 
expensive,' said I, ' and it really is not worth while — ' ' Sir, par- 
don me a thousand times,' said M. Beaucourt, ' it shall be iron. 
Assuredly and perfectly it shall be iron.' ' Then, M. Beaucourt,' 
said I, ' I shall be glad to pay a moiety of the cost.' ' Sir,' said 
M. Beaucourt, ' never ! ' Then, to change the subject, he slided 
from his firmness and gaiety into a graceful conversational tone, 
and said, ' In the moonlight last night, the flowers on the property 
appeared, O Heaven ! to be lathing themselves in the sky. You like 
the property?' 'M. Beaucourt,' said I, 'I am enchanted with 
it ; I am more than satisfied with everything.' ' And I, sir,' said 
M. Beaucourt, laying his cap upon his breast, and kissing his 
hand — 'I equally ! ' Yesterday two blacksmiths came for a day's 
work, and put up a good, solid, handsome bit of iron railing, mor- 
tised into the stone parapet." 

Of the soldiers who were handed over to M. Beaucourt's care, 
Charles Dickens wrote to Wilkie Collins in July, 1854 : " About 
one hundred and fifty soldiers have been at various times billeted 
on Beaucourt since we have been here, and he has clinked glasses 
with them every one, and read a MS. book of his father's, on 
soldiers in general, to them all." 

Monsieur Feroce's real name was Sauvage. 

For many years Charles Dickens suffered greatly from sea-sick- 
ness, and was liable to be prostrated by it on the smallest provoca- 
tion, but in the last ten years of his life he set himself to conquer 
the enemy, and succeeded at last perfectly. In a letter to M. de 
Cerjat, dated the 25th of October, 1864, he gave this account of 
the change in his relations with the Channel : " My being on the 



xxii REPRINTED PIECES. 

Dover line, and my being very fond of France, occasion me to 
cross the Channel perpetually. Whenever I feel that I have 
worked too much, or am on the eve of overdoing it, and want a 
change, away I go by the mail-train, and turn up in Paris or any- 
where else that suits my humour, next morning. So I come back 
as fresh as a daisy, and preserve as ruddy a face as though I never 
leant over a sheet of paper. When I retire from a literary life 
I think of setting up as a channel pilot." With regard to the 
reception of sea-sick passengers by the spectators who congregated 
at Boulogne to see the steamer come in, he wrote : " Leech says 
that when he stepped from the boat after their stormy passage, he 
was received by the congregated spectators with a distinct round 
of applause as by far the most intensely and unutterably miserable 
looking object that had yet appeared. The laughter was tumultu- 
ous, and he wishes his friends to know that altogether he made an 
immense hit." 

And see " Aboard Ship " and " The Calais Night Mail," in the 
" Uncommercial Traveller " ; and " A Flight," in the present 
volume.] 

BILL-STICKING. 

[The Advertising vans, on the invention of which the King of 
the Bill-Stickers so greatly prided himself, obstructed the traffic 
to such an extent at last as to become intolerable nuisances and 
were speedily abolished by the police. Bill-posting generally has 
made great strides since His Majesty furnished the information 
given in this paper. The third paragraph in this article refers to 
prominent advertisers of that day.] 

LYING AWAKE. 

[The London Tavern in Bishopsgate Within, over against the 
offices of Messrs. Baring Brothers & Co., was a great place for 
public dinners when this paper was written, and Mr. Bathe was its 
proprietor. It has long ceased to exist. 

Public executions are, happily, things of the past. The Man- 
nings were a man and his wife who murdered one O'Connor — the 
paramour of the woman — under circumstances of great atrocity 
and treachery. " I never liked him," Manning said in his confes- 
sion, " so I finished him oft" with the ripping chisel." 

The Morgue was continually obtruding itself on Charles Dickens's 
thoughts. See "Travelling Abroad," and "Some Recollections of 
Mortality " in the " Uncommercial Traveller." 

Flogging has of late years proved very effectual as a punishment 
for robbery with violence, and has not been attended by the evil 
consequences apprehended in this paper.] 

OUT OF TOWN. 
[For Pavilionstone read Folkestone.] 



NOTES. 



OUT OF THE SEASON. 

[The Watering-Place out of the season was Dover, and the 
place without a cliff was Deal. The Wedgington family inci- 
dent was thus described in a letter to Miss Hogarth: "I went 
to the Dover Theatre on Friday night, w^hich was a miserable 
spectacle. The pit is boarded over, and it is a drinking and smok- 
ing place. It was 'for the benefit of Mrs. ,' and the town 

had been very extensively placarded with ' Don't forget Friday.' 
I made out four-and-ninepence (1 am serious) in the house when I 
went in. We may have warmed up in the course of the evening 

to twelve shillings. A Jew played the grand piano ; Mrs. 

sang no end of songs (with not 'a bad voice, poor creature) ; Mr. 
sang comic songs fearfully, and danced clog hornpipes capi- 
tally ; and a miserable w^oman shivering in a shawl and bonnet, 

sat in the side boxes all the evening, nursing Master aged 

seven months. It w^as a most forlorn business, and I should 
have contributed a sovereign to the treasury if I had known 
how." 

The " good Mr. Baines of Leeds " mentioned in this connection 
was one of those Puritanical members of Parliament whose chief 
desire in life appears to be to deprive the people of any chance 
of amusing themselves, and whom Charles Dickens detested with 
the utmost cordiality. 

As to the " unprecedented chapter " Charles Dickens wrote to 
his wife : " I did nothing at Dover (except for ' Household 
Words ') and have not begun ' Little Dorrit,' no. 8, yet. But I 
took twenty mile walks in the fresh air, and perhaps in the long 
run did better than if I had been at work."] 



A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 

[All matters of this kind have been greatly simplified and 
cheapened since 1850, and Deputy Chaff-wax and his crew have 
been reformed out of existence.] 

A FLIGHT. 

[" To Paris in Eleven Hours " was considered a great feat 
in 1851, but that record was, of course, broken long ago. There 
is no reason why the present seven hours and a half or eight hours 
should not, in turn, be improved upon. 

"Meat-chell" was Mr. Mitchell, the manager of the French 
plays w^hich were at that time given at the St. James's Theatre. 

And see "Aboard Ship" and "The Calais Night Mail," in the 
" Uncommercial Traveller " ; and " Our French Watermg-Place," 
in the present volume.] 



REPRINTED PIECES.' 



DETECTIVE POLICE. 



[These are real stories told by real detectives, and are conse- 
quently altogether unlike the so-called detective stories which have 
been over-running English and American literature for so many 
weary years. Inspector Wield was Inspector Field, and afterwards 
sat — corpulent forefinger and all — for Inspector Bucket in "Bleak 
House."] 

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 

[This paper was photographically true when it was written, but 
the very worst parts of London would have to be exhaustively 
searched nowadays before the experiences which it describes could 
be even approached. The efficient administration of the Common 
Lodging Houses Act, known as Lord Shaftesbury's, has vastly 
improved all such matters.] 



DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 

[There is no toll-taker now at Waterloo, or at any of the other 
London Bridges. They are all free.] 



A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 

[And see " A Small Star in the East," " Wapping Workhouse,' 
and " Night Walks," in the " Uncommercial Traveller."] 



PRINCE BULL. 

[This paper refers to the gross mismanagement of affairs during 
the Crimean War, and the shameful break-down of the Circum- 
locution Departments which were supposed to be responsible for 
its proper conduct. In April, 1855, Charles Dickens made on this 
subject his only political speech, at a meeting of the Administrative 
Reform Association in Drury Lane Theatre. 

And see " The Great Tasmania's Cargo," in the " Uncommercial 
Traveller " ; and the " Thousand and one Humbugs," in the pres- 
ent volume.] 

OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND. 

[Charles Dickens had but a poor opinion of Parliaments and 
members of Parliament. John Forster remarks, speaking of the 
conclusion of his career as a reporter in the Press Gallery of the 
House of Commons, that " his observation while there had not led 
him to form any high opinion of the House of Commons or its 
heroes ; and that, of the Pickwickian sense which so often takes 



NOTES. XXV 

the place of common sense in our legislature, he omitted no oppor- 
tunity of declaring his contempt at every part of his life." 

Many years after the publication of this paper Charles Dickens 
wrote, quite in the Carlyle vein : " I declare that as to all matters 
on the face of the teeming earth, it appears to me that the House 
of Commons and Parliament altogether is become just the dreariest 
failure and nuisance that ever bothered this much-bothered world." 

And see the elections in " Pickwick " and " Our Mutual Friend."] 



OUR SCHOOL. 

[And see "Dullborough Town," in the "Uncommercial Trav- 
eller"; and "The Schoolboy's Story" and " The Ghost in Master 
B.'s Room," in the volume of " Christmas Stories."] 



PERFECT FELICITY. 

[The dog was, I think, right when he said that there was more 
than one Happy Family on view in the streets of London when 
this paper was written ; but for some years the cages on wheels 
which contained the odd collection of creatures here enumerated 
have ceased to be among the sights of the town. Regent Street 
and the corner of Trafalgar Square, opposite St. Martin's Church, 
were the favourite " pitches " for the best known of these peram- 
bulating menageries. 

The Mr. Hudson alluded to was the speculator who, in the early 
days of railways, was known as " The Railway King," and subse- 
quently, like Mr. Veneering in " Our Mutual Friend," made a 
resounding smash of it. The members of the raven's suggested 
Happy Family of men were, of course, selected for the extreme 
divergence of their aims and views. Except in the cases of the 
Rajah Brooke of Sarawak and Cardinal Wiseman, they are all 
forgotten now. Sir Peter Laurie was an egregious alderman of 
the city of London, who once declared his intention of " putting 
down " suicide amongst other things, and was satirised as Alderman 
Cute in " The Crimes."] 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. I. 

[Astley's was at that time, and for many years after, a famous 
London theatre for equestrian drama and " scenes in the circle." 

"Our proprietor's wife's" mission shows that what is absurdly 
called " the New Woman " is at the very least five-and-f orty years 
old. 

" One Gorham and a Privy Council " refers to a famous eccle- 
siastical law suit of that period, now altogether forgotten except 
by a few lawyers and ardent churchmen.] 



xxvi REPRINTED PIECES. 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. II. 

[And see " Medicine Men of Civilisation," in the " Uncommer- 
cial Traveller " ; the description of the funeral of Mrs. Garger}^ 
in " Great Expectations " ; the account of Mr. Mould and his busi- 
ness, in " Martin Chuzzlewit " ; and the directions as to his own 
burial, in Charles Dickens's will.] 

FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. HI. 

[Vauxhall and Cremorne Gardens were built over many years 
ago, and Greenwich Fair has also long ceased to exist. The 
Nepaulese Princes have had many successors — Shahs of Persia, 
Afghan Princes, and the like — and the raven's description of the 
imbecilities of " society " in such cases is as true to-day as it was 
in 1850 ; while the British public in general were even more foolish 
about the sale of the elephant "Jumbo" to Barnum a few years 
ago than they were about the first hippopotamus at the Zoological 
Gardens. 

The " good-natured, amiable old Duke " was the then recently 
deceased Duke of Cambridge.] 

EPSOM. 

[Charles Dickens wrote several articles in " Household Words " 
in collaboration with Mr. W. H. Wills, the latter dealing with the 
facts, and the former — sometimes very briefly — with the descrip- 
tive and picturesque side of the selected subject. These, as a rule, 
have not the individual and personal interest which would warrant 
their reproduction. But the authorship of the following descrip- 
tion of Epsom Races, which formed part of an article on the 
business side of a race meeting, is unmistakeable. 

The name of the firm of Fortnum & Mason of Piccadilly is still 
to be seen on very many Epsom luncheon hampers, although they 
have many more competitors now than they had in 1851.] 

FRAUDS ON THE FAIRIES. 

[George Cruikshank, artist, caricaturist, and rabid teetotaller, 
had published at about this time a version of the story of " Hop 
o' my Thumb," specially designed to advance his own special 
craze. 

Charles Dickens thereupon wrote to Mr. W. H. Wills : " I have 
thought of another article to be called ' Frauds upon the Fairies,' 
a propos of George Cruikshank's editing. HaK playfully and half 
seriously, I mean to protest most strongly against alteration, for 
any purpose, of the beautiful little stories which are so tenderly 
and humanly useful to us in these times, w^hen the world is so 
much with us, early and late ; and then to rewrite ' Cinderella,' 
according to Total Abstinence, Peace Society, and Bloomer princi- 
ples, and expressly for their propagation." 



NOTES. xxvii 

E. Moses & Son were advertising tailors ; Professor HoUoway's 
pills are still to the fore; Mary Wedlake was the name of a 
firm of agricultural implement makers, who perpetually advertised 
their oat-bruising machine in the words of the text. 

Charles Dickens never had any sort of tolerance for the Total 
Abstinence fanatics, whom he frequently satirised. 

And see " The Boiled Beef of Xew England " and " A Plea for 
Total Abstinence," in the " Uncommercial Traveller " ; and " The 
Great Baby," in the present volume.] 

THE THOUSAND AND ONE HUMBUGS. 

[In this, the longest of Charles Dickens's purely political squibs, 
it is only necessary to explain a few names and allusions. 

The Grand Vizier Parmastoon, then, was Lord Palmerston; 
Abaddeen, Lord Aberdeen, who had been made a knight of the 
Garter, apparently as a reward for his grotesque failure as Prime 
Minister during the Crimean War ; Hansardade is an allusion to 
Hansard's official Reports of the Parliamentary Debates ; Brothar- 
toon was ]Mr. Brotherton, a member of Parliament, whose hobby 
it was to try to get the House of Commons to adjourn at mid- 
night; Mista Spe'eka is, of course, Mr. Speaker; a Dowajah and 
the Penshunlist — the latter an institution not unknown in Amer- 
ica — speak for themselves ; Scarli Tapa referred to the official red 
tape; the Pray miah was the Prime Minister; Layardeen was Sir 
Henry (then Mr.) Layard, the explorer of Nineveh and a very 
"advanced" member of Parliament; Dizzee was jNIr. Disraeli; 
Darbee, Lord Derby; and Johnnee, Lord John Russell. 

"Let me count you out" refers to the rule of the House of 
Commons that no business can be transacted unless forty members 
are present. If any member reports, during a sitting, that there is 
a less number than forty present, the Speaker proceeds to count the 
House, and unless, during the process, the number is made up, the 
House stands adjourned. 

And see " Prince Bull " in the present volume.] 

THE LATE MR. STANFIELD. 

[Ox the 18th of April, 1867, Charles Dickens wrote to Clarkson 
Stanfield, signing himself "ever, my dear Stanny, your faithful and 
affectionate/' On the 19th of the following month he wrote to 
Mr. George Stanfield : " AMien I came up to the house this after- 
noon and saw what had happened, I had not the courage to ring, 
though I had thought I was fuUy prepared by what I heard when 
I called yesterday. No one of your father's friends can ever have 
loved him more dearly than I always did, or can have better known 
the worth of his noble character. ' It is idle to suppose that I can 
do anything for you ; and yet I cannot help saying that I am stay- 
ing here for some days, and that, if I could, it would be a much 
greater relief to me than it could be a service to you. Your poor 



xxYiii REPRINTED PIECES. 

mother has been constantly in my thoughts since I saw the quiet 
bravery with which she preserved her composure. The beauty of 
her ministration sank into my heart when I saw him for the last 
time on earth. May God be with her, and with you all, in your 
great loss." 

Stanfield and Charles Dickens had been close and dear friends 
for nearly thirty years.] 

LANDOR'S LIFE. 

["In a military burial-ground in India, the name of Walter 
Landor is associated with the present writer's, over the grave of a 
young officer." The young officer was Walter Landor Dickens, 
Charles Dickens's second son and Landor's godson, who died in 
Calcutta, on his way home invalided, on the 31st of December, 1863. 

In his " Life of Landor " John Forster tells the following story : 
" Ten years after Landor had lost his home " — his house at Fiesole, 
near Florence — " an Englishman travelling in Italy, his friend and 
mine, visited the neighbourhood for his sake, drove out from 
Florence to Fiesole, and asked his coachman which was the villa 
in which the Landor family lived. ' He was a dull dog, and pointed 
to Boccaccio's. I didn't believe him. He was so deuced ready 
that I knew he lied. I went up to the convent, which is on a 
height, and was leaning on a dwarf waU basking in the noble view 
over a vast range of hill and valley, when a little peasant girl came 
up and began to point out the localities. Ecco la Villa Landora ! 
was one of the first half-dozen sentences she spoke. My heart 
swelled as Landor's would have done when I looked down upon it, 
nestling among its olive-trees and vines, and with its upper win- 
dows (there are five above the door) open to the setting sun. Over 
the centre of these there is another story, set upon the house-top 
like a tower ; and all Italy, except its sea, is melted down into the 
glowing landscape it commands. I plucked a leaf of ivy from the 
convent-garden as I looked ; and here it is. For Landor, with my 
love.' So wrote Mr. Dickens to me from Florence on the 2nd of 
April, 1845 ; and when I turned over Landor's papers in the same 
month after an interval of exactly twenty years, the ivy-leaf was 
found carefully enclosed, with the letter in which I had sent it." 
" Dickens had asked him before leaving," Forster says in another 
place, "what he would most wish to have in remembrance of Italy. 
' An ivy-leaf from Fiesole,' said Landor." 

Landor was avowedly the original of Lawrence Boythorn in 
'' Bleak House."] 

A CURIOUS DANCE. 

[Mr. W. H. Wills had some share in the writing of this paper. 
It is reprinted here because it has already appeared in the form of 
a pamphlet, and is, in that stage, one of the odd things which, for 
no perceptible reason, are prized by Dickens's collectors.] 



NOTES. 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 

[Charles Dickens's love for Douglas Jerrold personally (they 
were friends for twenty years) was as great as his admiration of 
his brilliant intellect. Of Jerrold's death in June, 1857, he wrote : 
" I chance to know a good deal about the poor fellow's illness, for 
I was with him on the last day he was out. It was ten days ago, 
when we dined at a dinner given by Russell at Greenwich. He 
was complaining much when we met, said he had been sick three 
days, and attributed it to the inhaling of white paint from his 
study window. I did not think much of it at the moment, as we 
were very social ; but while we walked through Leicester Square, 
he suddenly fell into a white, hot, sick perspiration, and had to 
lean against the railings. Then, at my urgent request, he was to 
let me put him in a cab and send him home ; but he rallied a little 
after that, and on our meeting Russell determined to come with 
us. We three went down by steamboat that we might see the 
great ship,i and then got an open fly and rode about Blackheath : 
poor Jerrold mightily enjoying the air, and constantly saying 
that it set him up. He was rather quiet at dinner, but was very 
humorous and good, and in spirits, though he took hardly any- 
thing. We parted with references to coming down here " — Gads- 
hill — " and I never saw him again. Next morning he was taken 
very ill when he tried to get up. On the Wednesday and Thurs- 
day he was very bad, but rallied on the Friday, and was quite 
confident of getting well. On the Sunday he was very ill again ; 
and on the Monday forenoon died, ' at peace with all the world,' 
he said, and asked to be remembered to friends. He had become 
indistinct and insensible, until for but a few minutes at the end. 
I knew nothing about it, except that he had been ill, and was 
better, until going up by railway yesterday morning, I heard a 
man in the carriage, unfolding his newspaper, say to another, 
* Douglas Jerrold is dead.' "] 

LEIGH HUNT. 

[The two intimate literary friends of Leigh Hunt alluded to in 
this paper were Procter (Barry Cornwall) and Forster. The latter 
had been, from the beginning, clear that the original sketch must 
be toned down. Procter, who was not so strong about it at first, 
ultimately came round to Forster's view; and it was after the 
receipt of a letter from him that Charles Dickens wrote : "I have 
gone over every part of it very carefully, and I think I have made 
it much less like. I have also changed ' Leonard ' to ' Harold ' " — 
unfortunately the Leonard was retained in one place owing to a 
printer's error. "I have no right to give Hunt pain; and I am so 
bent upon not doing it that I wish you would look at all the proof 

1 This was the Great Eastern, then in process of construction, opposite 
Greenwich. 



XXX REPRINTED PIECES. 

once more, and indicate any particular place in which you feel it 
particularly like. Whereupon I will alter that place." 

Unfortunately the mischief was too deep-seated to admit of pal- 
liation. Leigh Hunt, it is true, did not at first recognise himself 
in Skimpole, but there were plenty of good-natured friends to 
point out to him such resemblance as there was ; and, as Forster 
says, "painful explanations followed," and, the time for redress 
being gone, "nothing was possible to Dickens but what amounted 
to a friendly evasion of the points really at issue." But he tried 
hard to put the matter right. " Separate in your mind," he said 
to Hunt, " what you see of yourself from what other people tell 
you that they see. As it has given you so much pain, I take it at 
its worst, and say I am deeply sorry, and that I feel I did wrong 
in doing it. I should otherwise have taken it at its best, and 
ridden off upon what I strongly feel to be the truth, that there is 
nothing in it that should have given you pain. Every one in writ- 
ing must speak from points of his experience, and so I of mine 
with you; but when I have felt it was going too close, I stopped 
myself, and the most blotted parts of my MS. are those in which 
I have been striving hard to make the impression I was writing 
from wn-like you. The diary-writing I took from Haydon, not 
from you. I now first learn from yourself that you ever set any- 
thing to music, and I could not have copied that from you. The 
character is not you, for there are traits in it common to fifty 
thousand people besides; and I did not fancy you would ever 
recognise it. Under similar disguises my own father and mother 
are in my books, and you might as well see your likeness in 
Micawber." 

The apology was frank and ample, but Leigh Hunt may be 
excused for thinking that a serious injury had been done him.] 



REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 6, 1850. 
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 

Theee was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and 
thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child 
too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all 
day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers ; they won- 
dered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they wondered at the 
depth of the bright water ; they wondered at the goodness and the 
power of God who made the lovely world. 

They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the 
children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, 
and the sky be sorry 1 They believed they would be sorry. For, 
said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little 
playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides are the children of 
the water ; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek 
in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars ; and 
they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of 
men, no more. 

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the 
sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It 
was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and 
every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. 
Whoever saw it first cried out, "I see the star ! " And often they 
cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and 
where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying 
down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it 
good night ; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used 
to say, " God bless the star ! " 

But while she was still very young, oh very very young, the 
sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer 
stand in the window at night ; and then the child looked sadly out 
by himself, and when he saw the star turned round and said to the 



2 REPRINTED PIECES. 

patient pale face on the bed, "I see the star!" and then a smile 
would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, 
" God bless my brother and the star ! " 

And so the time came all too soon ! when the child looked out 
alone, and when there was no face on the bed ; and when there was 
a little grave among the graves, not there before ; and when the star 
made long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears. 

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such 
a shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to 
his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, 
lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that spark- 
ling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great 
world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive 
them. 

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes 
upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came 
out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the 
people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them 
down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that 
lying in his bed he wept for joy. 

But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and 
among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain 
upon the bed was glorifietl and radiant, but his heart found out his 
sister among all the host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said 
to the leader among those who had brought the people thither : 

"Is my brother come 1 " 

And he said " No." 

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his 
arms, and cried, " 0, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " and then she 
turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night ; and the star 
was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as 
he saw it through his tears. 

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on 
the home he was to go to, when his time should come ; and he 
thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star 
too, because of his sister's angel gone before. 

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child ; and while 
he was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched 
his tiny form out on his bed, and died. 

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of 
angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their 
beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : 



A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 3 

" Is my brother come ? " 

And he said " Not that one, but another." 

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, 
" 0, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled 
upon him, and the star was shining. 

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an 
old servant came to him and said : 

" Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling 
son ! " 

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. 
Said his sister's angel to the leader : 

"Is my brother come 1 " 

And he said, " Thy mother ! " 

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because 
the mother was reunited to her two children. And he stretched 
out his arms and cried, "0, mother, sister, and brother, I am 
here! Take me!" And they "answered him, "Not yet," and 
the star was shining. 

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning grey, and he was 
sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his 
face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : "Is my brother come ? " 

And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter." 

And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly 
lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, 
"My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is 
around my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old 
time, and I can bear the parting from her, God be praised ! " 

And the star was shining. 

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face 
was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back 
was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children 
standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago : 

"I see the star ! " 

They whispered one to another, "He is dying." 

And he said, " I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, 
and I move towards the star as a child. And 0, my Father, now 
I thank thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones 
who await me ! " 

And the star was shining ; and it shines upon his grave. 



4 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 6, 1850. 
* PERFECT FELICITY.! 

IN A bird's-eye view. 

I AM the Raven in the Happy Family — and nobody knows 
what a life of misery I lead ! 

The dog informs me (he was a puppy about town before he 
joined us ; which was lately) that there is more than one Happy 
Family on view in London. Mine, I beg to say, may be known 
by being the Family which contains a splendid Raven. 

I want to know why I am to be called upon to accommodate 
myself to a cat, a mouse, a pigeon, a ringdove, an owl (who is the 
greatest ass I have ever known), a guinea-pig, a sparrow, and a 
variety of other creatures with whom I have no opinion in common. 
Is this national education? Because, if it is, I object to it. Is 
our cage what they call neutral ground, on which all parties may 
agree 1 If so, war to the beak I consider preferable. 

What right has any man to require me to look complacently at 
a cat on a shelf all day 1 It may be all very well for the owl. 
My opinion of him is that he blinks and stares himself into a 
state of such dense stupidity that he has no idea what company he 
is in. I have seen him, with my own eyes, blink himself, for hours, 
into the conviction that he was alone in a belfry. But / am not 
the owl. It would have been better for me, if I had been born in 
that station of life. 

I am a Raven. I am, by nature, a sort of collector, or antiqua- 
rian. If I contributed, in my natural state, to any Periodical, it 
would be " The Gentleman's Magazine." I have a passion for amass- 
ing things that are of no use to me, and burying them. Supposing 
such a thing — I don't wish it to be known to our proprietor that 
I put this case, but I say, supposing such a thing — as that I took 
out one of the Guinea-Pig's eyes ; how could I bury it here ? The 
floor of the cage is not an inch thick. To be sure, I could dig 
through it with my bill (if I dared), but what would be the com- 
fort of dropping a Guinea-Pig's eye into Regent Street ? 

What / want, is privacy. I want to make a collection. I de- 
sire to get a little property together. How can I do it here 1 Mr. 
Hudson couldn't have done it, under corresponding circumstances. 

I want to live by my own abihties, instead of being provided 

1 The papers marked * were not included in the English volume of 
Reprints. 



PERFECT FELICITY. 6 

for in this way. I am stuck in a cage with these incongruous 
companions, and called a Member of the Happy Family; but 
suppose you took a Queen's Counsel out of Westminster Hall, 
and settled him board and lodging free, in Utopia, where there 
would be no excuse for " his quiddits, his quillets, his cases, his 
tenures, and his tricks," how do you think he'd like it 1 Not at 
all. Then why do you expect me to like it, and add insult to 
injury by calling me a " Happy Raven " ? 

This is what I say : I want to see men do it. I should like to 
get up a Happy Family of men, and show 'em. I should like to 
put the Rajah Brooke, the Peace Society, Captain Aaron Smith, 
several Malay Pirates, Doctor Wiseman, the Reverend Hugh 
Stowell, Mr. Fox of Oldham, the Board of Health, all the London 
undertakers, some of the Common (very common / think) Council, 
and all the vested interests in the filth and misery of the poor, 
into a good-sized cage, and see how they'd get on. I should like 
to look in at 'em through the bars, after they had undergone the 
training I have undergone. You wouldn't find Sir Peter Laurie 
"putting down" Sanitary Reform then, or getting up in that 
vestry, and pledging his word and honour to the non-existence 
of Saint Paul's Cathedral, I expect ! And very happy he'd be, 
wouldn't he, when he couldn't do that sort of thing? 

I have no idea of you lords of the creation coming staring at 
me in this false position. Why don't you look at home? If you 
think I'm fond of the dove, you're very much mistaken. If you 
imagine there is the least good-will between me and the pigeon, 
you never were more deceived in your lives. If you suppose I 
wouldn't demolish the whole Family (myself excepted), and the 
cage too, if I had my own way, you don't know what a real Raven 
is. But if you do know this, why am / to be picked out as a 
curiosity? Why don't you go and stare at the Bishop of Exeter? 
Ecod, he's one of our breed, if anybody is. 

Do you make me lead this public life because I seem to be what 
I ain't ? Why, I don't make half the pretences that are common 
among you men ! You never heard me call the sparrow my noble 
friend. When did / ever tell the Guinea-Pig that he was my 
Christian brother? Name the occasion of my making myself a 
party to the " sham " (my friend Mr. Carlyle will lend me his favour- 
ite word for the occasion) that the cat hadn't really her eye upon 
the mouse ! Can you say as much ? What about the last Court 
Ball, the next Debate in the Lords, the last great Ecclesiastical 
Suit, the next long assembly in the Court Circular? I wonder 
you are not ashamed to look me in the eye ! I am an independent 
Member — of the Happy Family ; and I ought to be let out. 



6 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

I have only one consolation in my inability to damage anything, 
and that is that I hope I am instrumental in propagating a delu- 
sion as to the character of Ravens. I have a strong impression 
that the sparrows on our beat are beginning to think they may 
trust a Raven. Let 'em try ! There's an uncle of mine, in a 
stable-yard down in Yorkshire, who will very soon undeceive any 
small bird that may favour him with a call. 

The dogs too. Ha ! ha ! As they go by, they look at me and 
this dog, in quite a friendly way. They never suspect how I should 
hold on to the tip of his tail, if I consulted my own feelings instead 
of our proprietor's. It's almost worth being here, to think of some 
confiding dog who has seen me, going too near a friend of mine who 
lives at a hackney-coach stand in Oxford Street. You wouldn't 
stop his squeaking in a hurry, if my friend got a chance of him. 

It's the same with the children. There's a young gentleman 
with a hat and feathers, resident in Portland Place, who brings a 
penny to our proprietor, twice a week. He wears very short white 
drawers, and has mottled legs above his socks. He hasn't the 
least idea what I should do to his legs, if I consulted my own in- 
clinations. He never imagines what I am thinking of, when we 
look at one another. May he only take those legs, in their present 
juicy state, close to the cage of my brother-in-law of the Zoologi- 
cal Gardens, Regent's Park ! 

Call yourselves rational beings, and talk about our being re- 
claimed 1 Why, there isn't one of us who wouldn't astonish you, 
if we could only get out ! Let me out, and see whether / should 
be meek or not. But this is the way you always go on in — you 
know you do. Up at Pentonville, the sparrow says — and he 
ought to know, for he was born in a stack of chimneys in that 
prison — you are spending I am afraid to say how much every 
year out of the rates, to keep men in solitude, where they can't 
do any harm (that you know of), and then you sing all sorts of 
choruses about their being good. So am I what you call good — 
here. Why ? Because I can't help it. Try me outside ! 

You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the Magpie says ; and 
I agree with him. If you are determined to pet only those who 
take things and hide them, why don't you pet the Magpie and me ? 
We are interesting enough for you, ain't we ? The Mouse says you 
are not half so particular about the honest people. He is not a 
bad authority. He was almost starved when he lived in a work- 
house, wasn't he 1 He didn't get much fatter, I suppose, when he 
moved to a labourer's cottage 1 He was thin enough when he 
came from that place, here — I know that. And what does the 
Mouse (whose word is his bond) declare ? He declares that you 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 7 

don't take half the care you ought of your own young, and don't 
teach 'em half enough. Why don't you then 1 You might give 
our proprietor something to do, I should think, in twisting misera- 
ble boys and girls i7ito their proper nature, instead of twisting us 
out of ours. You are a nice set of fellows, certainly, to come and 
look at Happy Families, as if you had nothing else to look after ! 

I take the opportunity of our proprietor's pen and ink in the 
evening, to write this. I shall put it away in a corner — quite 
sure, as it's intended for the Post Office, of Mr. Rowland Hill's 
getting hold of it somehow, and sending it to somebody. I under- 
stand he can do anything with a letter. Though the Owl says 
(but I don't believe him), that the present prevalence of measles 
and chicken-pox among infants in all parts of this country, has 
been caused by Mr. Rowland Hill. I hope T needn't add that we 
Ravens are all good scholars, but that we keep our secret (as the 
Indians believe the Monkeys do, according to a Parrot of my ac- 
quaintance) lest our abilities should be imposed upon. As nothing 
worse than my present degradation as a member of the Happy 
Family can happen to me, however, I desert the General Freemasons' 
Lodge of Ravens, and express my disgust in writing 



Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 7, May 4, 1850. 
=^FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. — I. 

I won't bear it, and I don't see why I should. 

Having begun to commit my grievances to writing, I have made 
up my mind to go on. You men have a saying, " I may as well 
be hung for a sheep as a lamb." Very good. / may as well get 
into a false position with our proprietor for a ream of manuscript 
as a quire. Here goes ! 

I want to know who BufFon was. I'll take my oath he wasn't a 
bird. Then what did he know about birds — especially about 
Ravens ? He pretends to know all about Ravens. Who told him ? 
Was his authority a Raven? I should think not. There never was 
a Raven yet, who committed himself, you'll find if you look into 
the precedents. 

There's a schoolmaster in dusty black knee-breeches and stock- 
ings, who comes and stares at our establishment every Saturday, 
and brings a lot of boys with him. He is always bothering the 
boys about BufFon. That's the way I know what Bufi'on says. He 
is a nice man, BufFon ; and you're all nice men together, ain't you 1 



8 REPEINTED PIECES. 

What do you mean by saying that I am inquisitive and impu- 
dent, that I go everywhere, that I afifront and drive off the dogs, 
that I play pranks on the poultry, and that I am particularly 
assiduous in cultivating the good-will of the cook ? That's what 
your friend Buffon says, and you adopt him, it appears. And 
what do you mean by calling me "a glutton by nature, and a 
thief by habit " ? Why, the identical boy who was being told this, 
on the strength of Buffon, as he looked through our wires last Sat- 
urday, was almost out of his mind with pudding, and had got 
another boy's top in his pocket ! 

I tell you what. I like the idea of you men, writing histories 
of us, and settling what we are, and what we are not, and calling 
us any names you like best. What colours do you think you would 
show in, yourselves, if some of us were to take it into our heads to 
write histories of you? I know something of Astley's Theatre, I 
hope ; I was about the stables there, a few years. Ecod ! If you 
heard the observations of the Horses after the performance, you'd 
have some of the conceit taken out of you ! 

I don't mean to say that I admire the Cat. I donH admire her. 
On the whole, I have a personal animosity towards her. But, 
being obliged to lead this life, I condescend to hold communication 
with her, and I have asked her what her opinion is. She lived 
with an old lady of property before she came here, who had a num- 
ber of nephews and nieces. She says she could show you up to 
that extent, after her experience in that situation, that even you 
would be hardly brazen enough to talk of cats being sly and selfish 
any more. 

I am particularly assiduous in cultivating the good-will of the 
cook, am I ? Oh ! I suppose you never do anything of this sort, 
yourselves ? No politician among you was ever particularly assid- 
uous in cultivating the good-will of a minister, eh ? No clergy- 
man in cultivating the good- will of a bishop, humph? No 
fortune-seeker in cultivating the good-will of a patron, hah? 
You have no toad-eating, no time-serving, no place-hunting, no 
lacqueyship of gold and silver sticks, or anything of that sort, I 
suppose 1 You haven't too many cooks, in short, whom you are 
all assiduously cultivating, till you spoil the general broth 1 Not 
you. You leave that to the Ravens. 

Your friend Buffon, and some more of you, are mighty ready, it 
seems, to give us characters. Would you like to hear about your 
own temper and forbearance ? Ask the Dog. About your never 
overloading or ill-using a willing creature? Ask my brother-in- 
law's friend, the Camel, up in the Zoological. About your grati- 
tude to, and your provision for, old servants? I wish I could 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 9 

refer you to the last Horse I dined off (he was very tough), up at 
a knacker's yard in Battle Bridge. About your mildness, and your 
abstinence from blows and cudgels 1 Wait till the Donkey's book 
comes out ! 

You are very fond of laughing at the parrot, I observe. Now, 
I don't care for the parrot. I don't admire the parrot's voice — it 
wants hoarseness. And I despise the parrot's livery — considering 
black the only true wear. I would as soon stick my bill into the 
parrot's breast as look at him. Sooner. But if you come to that, 
and you laugh at the parrot because the parrot says the same thing 
over and over again, don't you think you could get up a laugh at 
yourselves 1 Did you ever know a Cabinet Minister say of a fla- 
grant job or great abuse, perfectly notorious to the whole country, 
that he had never heard a word of it himself, but could assure the 
honourable gentleman that every inquiry should be made? Did 
you ever hear a Justice remark, of any extreme example of igno- 
rance, that it was a most extraordinary case, and he couldn't have 
believed in the possibility of such a case — when there had been, 
all through his life, ten thousand such within sight of his chimney- 
pots 1 Did you ever hear, among yourselves, anything approaching 
to a parrot repetition of the words. Constitution, Country, Public 
Service, Self-Government, Centralisation, Un-English, Capital, Bal- 
ance of Power, Vested Interests, Corn Rights of Labour, Wages, 
or so forth ? Did you ever 1 No ! Of course, you never ! 

But to come back to that fellow Buffon. He finds us Ravens 
to be most extraordinary creatures. We have properties so remark- 
able, that you'd hardly believe it. "A piece of money, a teaspoon, 
or a ring," he says, "are always tempting baits to our avarice. 
These we will slily seize upon ; and, if not watched, carry to our 
favourite hole." How odd ! 

Did you ever hear of a place called California? / have. I 
understand there are a number of animals over there, from all parts 
of the world, turning up the ground with their bills, grubbing 
under the water, sickening, moulting, living in want and fear, 
starving, dying, tumbling over on their backs, murdering one 
another, and all for what ? Pieces of money that they want to 
carry to their favourite holes. Ravens every one of 'em ! Not a 
man among 'em, bless you ! 

Did you ever hear of Railway Scrip ? / have. We made a 
pretty exhibition of ourselves about that, we feathered creatures ! 
Lord, how we went on about that Railway Scrip ! How we fell 
down, to a bird, from the Eagle to the Sparrow, before a scare- 
crow, and worshipped it for the love of the bits of rag and paper 
fluttering from its dirty pockets ! If it hadn't tumbled down in 



10 REPRINTED PIECES. 

its rottenness, we should have clapped a title on it within ten years, 
I'll be sworn — Go along with you, and your BufFon, and don't talk 
to me ! 

" The Raven don't confine himself to petty depredations on the 
pantry or the larder " — here you are with your Buffon again — 
"but he soars at more magnificent plunder, that he can neither 
exhibit nor enjoy." This must be very strange to you men — 
more than it is to the Cat who lived with that old lady, though ! 

Now, I am not going to stand this. You shall not have it all 
your own way. I am resolved that I won't have Ravens written 
about by men, without having men written about by Ravens — at 
all events by one Raven, and that's me. I shall put down my opin- 
ions about you. As leisure and opportunity serve, I shall collect 
a natural history of you. You are a good deal given to talk about 
your missions. That's my mission. How do you like it % 

I am open to contributions from any animal except one of your 
set ; bird, beast, or fish, may assist me in my mission, if he will. 
I have mentioned it to the Cat, intimated it to the Mouse, and 
proposed it to the Dog. The Owl shakes his head when I confide 
it to him, and says he doubts. He always did shake his head, and 
doubt. Whenever he brings himself before the public, he never 
does anything except shake his head and doubt. I should have 
thought he had got himself into a suificient mess by doing that, 
when he roosted for a long time in the Court of Chancery. But 
he can't leave off. He's always at it. 

Talking of missions, here's our Proprietor's Wife with a mission 
now ! She has found out that she ought to go and vote at elec- 
tions; ought to be competent to sit in Parliament, ought to be 
able to enter the learned professions — the army and navy too, I 
believe. She has made the discovery that she has no business to 
be the comfort of our Proprietor's life, and to have the hold upon 
him of not being mixed up in all the janglings and wranglings of 
men, but is quite ill-used in being the solace of his home, and wants 
to go out Speechifying. That's our Proprietor's Wife's new mis- 
sion. Why, you never heard the Dove go on in that ridiculous way. 
She knows her true strength better. 

You are mighty proud about your language ; but it seems to me 
that you don't deserve to have words, if you can't make a better 
use of 'em. You know you are always fighting about 'em. Do 
you never mean to leave that off", and come to things a little ? I 
thought you had high authority for not tearing each other's eyes 
out, about words. You respect it, don't you ? 

I declare I am stunned with w^ords, on my perch in the Happy 
Family. I used to think the cry of a Peacock bad enough, when 



THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 11 

I was on sale in a menagerie, but I had rather live in the midst 
of twenty jDeacocks, than one Gorham and a Privy Council. In 
the midst of your wordy squabbling you don't think of the lookers- 
on. But if you heard what / hear in my public thoroughfare, 
you'd stop a little of that noise and leave the great bulk of the 
people something to believe in peace. You are overdoing it, I 
assure you. 

I don't wonder at the Parrot picking words up and occupying 
herself with them. She has nothing else to do. There are no 
destitute parrots, no uneducated parrots, no foreign parrots in a 
contagious state of distraction, no parrots in danger of pestilence, 
no festering heaps of miserable parrots, no parrots crying to be 
sent away beyond the sea for dear life. But among you ! . . . 

Well ! I repeat, I am not going to stand it. Tame submission 
to injustice is unworthy of a Raven. I croak the croak of revolt, 
and call upon the Happy Family to rally round me. You men 
have had it all your own way for a long time. Noiv, you shall 
hear a sentiment or two about yourselves. 

I find my last communication gone from the corner where I hid 
it. I rather suspect the magpie, but he says, " Upon his honour." 
If Mr. Rowland Hill has got it, he will do me justice — more jus- 
tice than you have done him lately, or I am mistaken in my man. 



Household Words, Vol, 1, No. 8, May 18, 1850. 
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 

The amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and 
useful purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off" against 
the Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and 
impositions of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the 
immeasurable harm he does to the deserving, — dirtying the stream 
of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, 
with inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and 
the true currency we have always among us, — he is more worthy 
of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who 
are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been 
sent there long ago. 

I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen 
receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been 
made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any 
one of the great branch Post-Oflices is for general correspondence. 



12 RE'PRINTED PIECES. 

I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has 
besieged my door at all hours of the day and night ; he has fought 
my servant ; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming 
in ; he has followed me out of town into the country ; he has ap- 
peared at provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a 
few hours ; he has written to me from immense distances, when I 
have been out of England. He has fallen sick ; he has died and 
been buried ; he has come to life again, and again departed from 
this transitory scene : he has been his own son, his own mother, his 
own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grand- 
father. He has wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in ; a pound to 
set him up in life for ever ; a pair of boots to take him to the coast 
of China ; a hat to get him into a permanent situation under Govern- 
ment. He has frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of 
independence. He has had such openings at Liverpool — posts of 
great trust and confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but 
seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure — that I wonder 
he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment. 

The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of 
a most astounding nature. He has had two children who have 
never grown up ; who have never had anything to cover them at 
night ; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in 
vain for food ; who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, 
I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco 
smoke, as a disinfectant) ; who have never changed in the least 
degree through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what 
that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always 
been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and 
has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceas- 
ing. He has never cared for himself; he could have perished — he 
would rather, in short — but was it not his Christian duty as a 
man, a husband, and a father, to write begging letters when he looked 
at her ? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the even- 
ing for an answer to this question.) 

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his 
brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart. 
His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the 
money ; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum and 
left him to pay it ; his brother would have given him employment 
to the tune of hundreds a year, if he would have consented to write 
letters on a Sunday ; his brother enunciated principles incompatible 
with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit 
his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a 
spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don't 



THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 13 

know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown 
grey hi possession. They will have to bury him some day. 

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been 
in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected 
with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description 
and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman ; 
he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can 
quote Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor 
English word) ; he can tell you what Shakespeare says about beg- 
ging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the 
midst of his afflictions he always reads the newspapers ; and rounds 
off his appeal with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in 
my way, to the popular subject of the hour. 

His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has 
never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That 
is the first time ; that shall be the last. Don't answer it, and let 
it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Some- 
times (and more frequently) he has written a few such letters. 
Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of 
inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully 
returned. He is fond of enclosing something — verses, letters, 
pawnbrokers' duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is 
very severe upon "the pampered minion of fortune," who refused 
him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two — 
but he knows me better. 

He writes in a variety of styles ; sometimes in low spirits ; 
sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits he writes 
down-hill and repeats words — these little indications being ex- 
pressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more viva- 
cious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I 
know what human nature is, — who better ? Well ! He had a 
little money once, and he ran through it — as many men have done 
before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now — • 
many men have done that before him too ! Shall he tell me why 
he writes to me 1 Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He 
puts it on that ground plainly ; and begs to ask for the loan (as I 
know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday 
six weeks, before twelve at noon. 

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that 
there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got 
rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company's service, 
and is off" directly — but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the 
Serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he 
should take out a single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to 



14 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does not 
ask for money, after what has passed ; but if he calls at nine to- 
morrow morning may he hope to find a cheese 1 And is there any- 
thing he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal ? 

Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind. 
He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up 
in brown paper, at people's houses, on pretence of being a Railway- 
Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This sport- 
ive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after 
his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (hav- 
ing first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to under- 
stand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been 
travelling about the country with a cart of crockery. That he had 
been doing pretty well until the day before, when his horse had 
dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had reduced 
him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts himself, 
and drawing the cart of crockery to London — a somewhat exhaust- 
ing pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for 
money ; but that if I would have the goodness to leave him out a 
donkey, he would call for the animal before breakfast ! 

At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences) 
introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of 
distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre — which 
was really open ; its representation was delayed by the indisposition 
of a leading actor — who was really ill ; and he and his were in a 
state of absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to 
the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of 
treatment he might expect ? Well ! we got over that difficulty to 
our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he was in some 
other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in extremity 
— and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards he 
had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want 
of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and 
did not reply to that epistle. But a little while afterwards, I had 
reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken- 
hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows 
died in his arms last night at nine o'clock ! 

I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner 
and his poor children ; but the messenger went so soon, that the 
play was not ready to be played out ; my friend was not at home, 
and his wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was 
taken up by the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards ap- 
peared), and I presented myself at a London Police-Office with my 
testimony against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck 



THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 16 

by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence 
of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments 
there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and 
was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. 
A collection was made for the "poor fellow," as he was called in 
the reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being 
universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me 
a friend of mine, the governor of a large prison. " Why did you 
ever go to the Police-Office against that man," says he, "without 
coming to me first ? I know all about him and his frauds. He 
lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when 
he first wrote to you ; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eigh- 
teen-pence a pound, and early asparagus at I don't know how much 
a bundle ! " On that very same day, and in that very same hour, 
my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to 
know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having 
passed the night in a " loathsome dungeon." And next morning 
an Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had 
read the case, and was very well persuaded I should be chary of 
going to that Police-Ofiice again, positively refused to leave my 
door for less than a sovereign, and resolved to besiege me into 
compliance, literally " sat down " before it for ten mortal hours. 
The garrison being well provisioned, I remained within the walls ; 
and he raised the siege at midnight with a prodigious alarum on 
the bell. 

The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of ac- 
quaintance. Whole pages of the " Court Guide " are ready to be 
references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there 
never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known 
him time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn't do for 
him. Somehow, they don't give him that one pound ten he stands 
in need of; but perhaps it is not enough — they want to do more, 
and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his 
trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it ; and 
those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, 
and sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messen- 
ger — man, woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately 
to become an independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and 
daughters succeed to his calling, and write begging-letters when he 
is no more. He throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, 
like the contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily 
called " the dangerous luxury of dishonesty " is more tempting, and 
more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other. 

He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter 



16 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money 
to-day in recognition of a begging-letter, — no matter how unlike 
a common begging-letter, — and for the next fortnight you will 
have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give ; and 
the begging-letters become Angels' visits, until the Society is from 
some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try 
you as anybody else. It is of little use inquiring into the Begging- 
Letter Writer's circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally 
found out, as in the case already mentioned (though that was not 
the first inquiry made) ; but apparent misery is always a part of 
his trade, and real misery very often is, in the intervals of spring- 
lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his 
dissipated and dishonest life. 

That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of 
money are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the 
Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare oc- 
currence, relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. 
The cause of this is to be found (as no one knows better than the 
Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the 
aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed 
upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy, 
flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man at 
large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press 
(on the 29th of April, 1850), and never once taken up yet, who, 
within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious 
and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever 
known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow's 
proceedings ; it has been his business to write to all sorts and con- 
ditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and 
unblemished honour, professing to be in distress — the general ad- 
miration and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous 
reply. 

Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a 
real person may do something more to induce reflection on this 
subject than any abstract treatise — and with a personal knowl- 
edge of the extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been 
carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly 
increasing — the writer of this paper entreats the attention of his 
readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a type of 
the experience of many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely 
larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of 
his conclusions from it. 

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case 
whatever, and able to recall but one, within his whole individual 



THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 17 

knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that 
any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious 
considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post, 
made it perfectly manifest that a set of lazy vagabonds were 
interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve 
the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering, and 
the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some 
little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of preventible 
sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, 
however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves cumber- 
ing society. That imagination, — soberly following one of these 
knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with 
the life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of 
the children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the 
late lamented Mr. Drouet, ^ — contemplated a grim farce, impossi- 
ble to be presented very much longer before God or man. That 
the crowning miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New 
Testament, after the miracle of the blind seeing, and the 
lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the 
miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. That 
while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the 
thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of 
their youth — for of flower or blossom such youth has none — the 
Gospel was not preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning 
voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the 
Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-Office Order 
to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting 
of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last Great Day 
as anything towards it. 

The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more un- 
like their habits. The writers are public robbers ; and we who 
support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon 
every circumstance within their knowledge that aff'ects us, public 
or private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our 
lives ; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue into 
weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, 
and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of 
feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade. 

There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among 
us in more ways than one — sacred, not merely from the murderous 
weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from 
preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is tlie first great 
end we have to set against this miserable imposition. Physical life 
respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a Beg- 



18 REPRINTED PIECES. 

ging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score of children 
for a year. Let us give all we can ; let us give more than ever. 
Let us do all we can ; let us do more than ever. But let us give, 
and do, with a high purpose ; not to endow the scum of the earth, 
to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our duty. 



Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 9, May 25, 1850. 
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 

On a certain Sunday, I formed one of the congregation assembled 
in the chapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the excep- 
tion of the clergyman and clerk, and a very few officials, there were 
none but paupers present. The children sat in the galleries ; the 
women in the body of the chapel, and in one of the side aisles ; the 
men in the remaining aisle. The service was decorously performed, 
though the sermon might have been much better adapted to the 
comprehension and to the circumstances of the hearers. The usual 
supplications were offered, with more than the usual significancy in 
such a place, for the fatherless children and widows, for all sick 
persons and young children, for all that were desolate and oppressed, 
for the comforting and helping of the weak-hearted, for the raising- 
up of them that had fallen; for all that were in danger, necessity, 
and tribulation. The prayers of the congregation were desired "for 
several persons in the various wards dangerously ill ; " and others 
who were recovering returned their thanks to Heaven. 

Among this congregation, were some evil-looking young women, 
and beetle-browed young men ; but not many — perhaps that kind 
of characters kept away. Generally, the faces (those of the chil- 
dren excepted) were depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. 
Aged people were there, in every variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, 
spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame ; vacantly winking in the gleams of 
sun that now and then crept in through the open doors, from the 
paved yard; shading their listening ears, or blinking eyes, with 
their withered hands ; poring over their books, leering at nothing, 
going to sleep, crouching and drooping in corners. There were 
weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet and cloak without, 
continually wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of pocket-handker- 
chiefs; and there were ugly old crones, -both male and female, with 
a ghastly kind of contentment upon them which was not at all com- 
forting to see. Upon the whole, it was the dragon, Pauperism, in 



A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 19 

a very weak and impotent condition ; toothless, fangless, drawing 
his breath heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up. 

When the service was over, I walked with the humane and con- 
scientious gentleman whose duty it was to take that walk, that 
Sunday morning, through the little world of poverty enclosed within 
the workhouse walls. It was inhabited by a population of some 
fifteen hundred or two thousand paupers, ranging from the infant 
newly born or not yet come into the pauper world, to the old man 
dying on his bed. 

In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of list- 
less women were lounging to and fro, trying to get warm in the 
ineffectual sunshine of the tardy May morning — in the "Itch 
Ward," not to compromise the truth — a woman such as Hogarth 
has often drawn, was hurriedly getting on her gown before a dusty 
fire. She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalubrious 
department — herself a pauper — flabby, raw-boned, untidy — un- 
promising and coarse of aspect as need be. But, on being spoken 
to about the patients whom she had in charge, she turned round, 
with her shabby gown half on, half off, and fell a crying with all 
her might. Not for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish 
sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction of her heart ; turning 
away her dishevelled head : sobbing most bitterly, wringing her 
hands, and letting fall abundance of great tears, that choked 
her utterance. What was the matter with the nurse of the itch- 
ward ? Oh, " the dropped child " was dead ! Oh, the child that 
was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died 
an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this 
cloth ! The dear, the pretty dear ! 

The dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death 
to be in earnest with, but Death had taken it; and already its 
diminutive form was neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if 
in sleep upon a box. I thought I heard a voice from Heaven say- 
ing. It shall be well for thee, nurse of the itch-ward, when some 
less gentle pauper does those offices to thy cold form, that such as 
the dropped child are the angels who behold my Father's face ! 

In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witch- 
like, round a hearth, and chattering and nodding, after the manner 
of the monkeys. " All well here 1 And enough to eat ? " A gen- 
eral chattering and chuckling ; at last an answer from a volunteer. 
" Oh yes gentleman ! Bless you gentleman ! Lord bless the Parish 
of St. So-and-So ! It feed the hungry, sir, and give drink to the 
thusty, and it warm them which is cold, so it do, and good luck to 
the parish of St. So-and-So, and thankee gentleman ! " Elsewhere, 
a party of pauper nurses were at dinner. " How do t/ou get on 1 " 



20 REPRINTED PIECES. 

" Oh pretty well, sir ! We works hard, and we lives hard — like 
the sodgers ! " 

In another room, a kind of purgatory or place of transition, six 
or eight noisy madwomen were gathered together, under the super- 
intendence of one sane attendant. Among them was a girl of two 
or three-and-twenty, very prettily dressed, of most respectable ap- 
pearance, and good manners, who had been brought in from the 
house where she had lived as domestic servant (having, I suppose, 
no friends), on account of being subject to epileptic fits, and requir- 
ing to be removed under the influence of a very bad one. She was 
by no means of the same stuff', or the same breeding, or the same 
experience, or in the same state of mind, as those by whom she was 
surrounded ; and she pathetically complained that the daily associa- 
tion and the nightly noise made her worse, and was driving her 
mad — which was perfectly evident. The case was noted for inquiry 
and redress, but she said she had already been there for some weeks. 

If this girl had stolen her mistress's watch, I do not hesitate to 
say she would have been infinitely better off". We have come to 
this absurd, this dangerous, this monstrous pass, that the dishonest 
felon is, in respect of cleanliness, order, diet, and accommodation, 
better provided for, and taken care of, than the honest pauper. 

And this conveys no special imputation on the workhouse of the 
parish of St. So-and-So, where, on the contrary, I saw many things 
to commend. It was very agreeable, recollecting that most infa- 
mous and atrocious enormity committed at Tooting — an enormity 
which, a hundred years hence, will still be vividly remembered in 
the bye-ways of English life, and which has done more to engender 
a gloomy discontent and suspicion among many thousands of the 
people than all the Chartist leaders could have done in all their 
lives — to find the pauper children in this workhouse looking robust 
and well, and apparently the objects of very great care. In the 
Infant School — a large, light, airy room at the top of the building 
— the little creatures, being at dinner, and eating their potatoes 
heartily, were not cowed by the presence of strange visitors, but 
stretched out their small hands to be shaken, with a very pleasant 
confidence. And it was comfortable to see two mangey pauper 
rocking-horses rampant in a corner. In the girls' school, where the 
dinner was also in progress, everything bore a cheerful and healthy 
aspect. The meal was over, in the boys' school, by the time of our 
arrival there, and the room was not yet quite rearranged ; but the 
boys were roaming unrestrained about a large and airy yard, as any 
other schoolboys might have done. Some of them had been draw- 
ing large ships upon the schoolroom wall ; and if they had a mast 
with shrouds and stays set up for practice (as they have in the 



A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 21 

Middlesex House of Correction), it would be so much the better. 
At present, if a boy should feel a strong impulse upon him to learn 
the art of going aloft, he could only gratify it, I presume, as the 
men and women paupers gratify their aspirations after better board 
and lodging, by smashing as many workhouse windows as possible, 
and being promoted to prison. 

In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, a company of boys 
and youths were locked up in a yard alone ; their day-room being 
a kind of kennel where the casual poor used formerly to be littered 
down at night. Divers of them had been there some long time. 
"Are they never going away?" was the natural inquiry. "Most 
of them are crippled, in some form or other," said the Wardsman, 
"and not fit for anything." They slunk about, like dispirited 
wolves or hyaenas ; and made a pounce at their food when it was 
served out, much as those animals do. The big-headed idiot shuf- 
fling his feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a 
more agreeable object everyway. 

Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers and other sick 
women in bed; groves of lunatics; jungles of men in stone-paved 
down-stairs day-rooms, waiting for their dinners ; longer and longer 
groves of old people, in up-stairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, 
God knows how — this was the scenery through which the walk 
lay, for two hours. In some of these latter chambers, there were 
pictures stuck against the wall, and a neat display of crockery and 
pewter on a kind of sideboard ; now and then it was a treat to see 
a plant or two ; in almost every ward there was a cat. 

In all of these Long Walks of aged and infirm, some old people 
were bedridden, and had been for a long time ; some were sitting 
on their beds half-naked ; some dying in their beds ; some out of 
bed, and sitting at a table near the fire. A sullen or lethargic 
indifterence to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything 
but warmth and food, a moody absence of complaint as being of no 
use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to be left alone again, I 
thought were generally apparent. On our walking into the midst 
of one of these dreary perspectives of old men, nearly the following 
little dialogue took place, the nurse not being immediately at hand : 

"All well here?" 

No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others 
on a form at the table, eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back 
his cap a little to look at us, claps it down on his forehead again 
with the palm of his hand, and goes on eating. 

" All well here ? " (repeated.) 

No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralytically 
peeling a boiled potato, lifts his head and stares. 



22 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

"Enough to eat r' 

No answer. Another old man, in bed, turns himself and coughs. 

" How are you to-day ? " To the last old man. 

That old man says nothing ; but another old man, a tall old man 
of very good address, speaking with perfect correctness, comes for- 
ward from somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply 
almost always proceeds from a volunteer, and not from the person 
looked at or spoken to. 

"We are very old, sir," in a mild, distinct voice. "We can't 
expect to be well, most of us." 

" Are you comfortable ? " 

" I have no complaint to make, sir." With a half shake of his 
head, a half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of apologetic smile. 

" Enough to eat ? " 

"Why, sir, I have but a poor appetite," with the same air as 
before; "and yet I get through my allowance very easily." 

" But," showing a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it ; " here 
is a portion of mutton, and three potatoes. You can't starve on 
that?" 

" Oh dear no, sir," with the same apologetic air. " Not starve." 

" What do you want ? " 

" We have very little bread, sir. It's an exceedingly small 
quantity of bread." 

The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands at the questioner's 
elbow, interferes with, "It ain't much raly, sir. You see they've 
only six ounces a day, and w^hen they've took their breakfast, there 
can only be a little left for night, sir." 

Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bed-clothes, 
as out of a grave, and looks on. 

" You have tea at night % " The questioner is still addressing 
the well-spoken old man. 

"Yes, sir, we have tea at night." 

" And you save what bread you can from the morning, to eat 
with it?" 

"Yes, sir — if we can save any." 

" And you want more to eat with it % " 

"Yes, sir." With a very anxious face. 

The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little 
discomposed, and changes the subject. 

" What has become of the old man who used to lie in that bed 
in the comer % " 

The nurse don't remember what old man is referred to. There 
has been such a many old men. The well-spoken old man is 
doubtful. The spectral old man who has come to life in bed, says, 



A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 23 

" Billy Stevens." Another old man who has previously had his 
head in the fire-place, pipes out, 

" Charley Walters." 

Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley 
Walters had conversation in him. 

" He's dead," says the piping old man. 

Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily displaces the 
piping old man, and says : 

" Yes ! Charley Walters died in that bed, and — and — " 

" Billy Stevens," persists the spectral old man. 

" No, no ! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and — and — 
they're both on 'em dead — and Sam'l Bowyer ; " this seems very 
extraordinary to him ; " he went out ! " 

With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite 
enough of it) subside, and the spectral old man goes into his grave 
again, and takes the shade of Billy Stevens with him. 

As we turn to go out at the door, another previously invisible 
old man, a hoarse old man in a flailnel gown, is standing there, as 
if he had just come up through the floor. 

" I beg your pardon, sir, -could I take the liberty of saying a 
word?" 

"Yes; what is it?" 

" I am greatly better in my health, sir ; but what I want, to 
get me quite round," with his hand on his throat, " is a little fresh 
air, sir. It has always done my complaint so much good, sir. 
The regular leave for going out, comes round so seldom, that if 
the gentlemen, next Friday, would give me leave to go out walk- 
ing, now and then — for only an hour or so, sir ! — " 

Who could wonder, looking through those weary vistas of bed 
and infirmity, that it should do him good to meet with some other 
scenes, and assure himself that there was something else on earth ? 
Who could help wondering why the old men lived on as they did ; 
what grasp they had on life ; what crumbs of interest or occupation 
they could pick up from its bare board ; whether Charley Walters 
had ever described to them the days when he kept company with 
some old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told 
them of the time when he was a dweller in the far-off" foreign land 
called Home ! 

The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, 
in bed, wrapped in lint, and looking stedfastly at us with his bright 
quiet eyes when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge 
of these things, and of all the tender things there are to think 
about, might have been in his mind — as if he thought, with us, 
that there was a fellow-feeling in the pauper nurses which appeared 



24 BEPRINTED PIECES. 

to make them more kind to their charges than the race of common 
nurses in the hospitals — as if he mused upon the Future of some 
older children lying around him in the same place, and thought it 
best, perhaps, all things considered, that he should die — as if he 
knew, without fear, of those many coffins, made and unmade, 
piled up in the store below — and of his unknown friend, "the 
dropped child," calm upon the box-lid covered with a cloth. But 
there was something wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as 
if, in the midst of all the hard necessities and incongruities he 
pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged 
poor, for a little more liberty — and a little more bread. 



Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 11, June 8, 1850. 
*FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. — 11. 

Halloa ! 

You wonH let me begin that Natural History of you, eh ? You 
will always be doing something or other, to take off my attention ? 
Now, you have begun to argue with the Undertakers, have you? 
What next ! 

Ugh ! you are a nice set of fellows to be discussing, at this time 
of day, whether you shall countenance that humbug any longer. 
" Performing " funerals, indeed ! I have heard of performing dogs 
and cats, performing goats and monkeys, performing ponies, white 
mice, and canary birds ; but, performing drunkards at so much a 
day, guzzling over your dead, and throwing half of you into debt 
for a twelvemonth, beats all I ever heard of. Ha, ha ! 

The other day there was a person " went and died " (as our Pro- 
prietor's wife says) close to our establishment. Upon my beak I 
thought I should have fallen off my perch, you made me laugh so, 
at the funeral ! 

Oh my crop and feathers, what a scene it was ! / never saw 
the Owl so charmed. It was just the thing for him. 

First of all, two dressed-up fellows came — trying to look sober, 
but they couldn't do it — and stuck themselves outside the door. 
There they stood, for hours, with a couple of crutches covered over 
with drapery ; cutting their jokes on the company as they went in, 
and breathing such strong rum and water into our establishment over 
the way, that the Guinea-Pig (who has a poor little head) was drunk 
in ten minutes. You are so proud of your humanity. Ha, ha ! 
As if a pair of respectable crows wouldn't have done it much better 1 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 25 

By-and-bye there came a hearse and four, and then two car- 
riages and four ; and on the tops of 'em, and on all the horses' 
heads, were plumes of feathers, hired at so much per plume ; and 
everything, horses and all, was covered over with black velvet, till 
you couldn't see it. Because there were not feathers enough yet, 
there was a fellow in the procession carrying a board of 'em on his 
head, like Italian images ; and there were about five-and-twenty or 
thirty other fellows (all hot and red in the face with eating and 
drinking) dressed up in scarves and hat-bands, and carrying — shut- 
up fishing rods, I believe — who went draggling through the mud, 
in a manner that I thought would be the death of me ; while the 
"Black Jobmaster" — that's what he calls himself — who had let 
the coaches and horses to a furnishing undertaker, who had let 'em 
to a haberdasher, who had let 'em to a carpenter, who had let 'em 
to the parish-clerk, who had let 'em to the sexton, who had let 
'em to the plumber painter and glazier who had got the funeral to 
do, looked out of the public-house window at the corner, with his 
pipe in his mouth, and said — for I heard him — "that was the 
sort of turn-out to do a gen-teel party credit." That ! As if any 
two-and-sixpenny masquerade, tumbled into a vat of blacking, 
wouldn't be quite as solemn, and immeasurably cheaper ! 

Do you think I don't know you ? You're mistaken if you think 
so. But perhaps you do. Well ! Shall I tell you what I know ? 
Can you bear it 1 Here it is then. The Black Jobmaster is right. 
The root of all this, is the gen-teel party. 

You don't mean to deny it, I hope ? You don't mean to tell me 
that this nonsensical mockery isn't owing to your gentility. Don't 
I know a Raven in a Cathedral Tower, who has often heard your 
service for the Dead 1 Don't I know that you almost begin it with 
the words, " We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain 
that we can carry nothing out"? Don't I know that in a mon- 
strous satire on those words, you carry your hired velvets, and 
feathers, and scarves, and all the rest of it to the edge of the grave, 
and get plundered (and serve you right !) in every article, because 
you WILL be gen-teel parties to the last ? 

Eh ? Think a little ! Here's the plumber painter and glazier 
come to take the funeral order which he is going to give to the 
sexton, who is going to give it to the clerk, who is going to give it 
to the carpenter, who is going to give it to the haberdasher, who is 
going to give it to the furnishing undertaker, who is going to divide 
it with the Black Jobmaster. " Hearse and four. Sir 1 " says he. 
"No, a pair will be sufficient." "I beg your pardon. Sir, but 
when we buried Mr. Grundy at number twenty, there was four on 
'em, Sir ; I think it right to mention it." " Well, perhaps there had 



26 REPRINTED PIECES. 

better be four." " Thank you, Sir. Two coaches and four, Sir, 
shall we say V " No. Coaches and pair." " You'll excuse my 
mentioning it, Sir, but pairs to the coaches, and four to the hearse, 
would have a singular appearance to the neighbours. When we 
put four to anything, we always carry four right through." " Well ! 
say four ! " " Thank you. Sir. Feathers of course? " " No. No 
feathers. They're absurd." "Very good, Sir. JSfo feathers?" 
"No." " Veri/ good. Sir. We can do fours without feathers, Sir, 
but it's what we never do. When we buried Mr. Grundy, there 
was feathers, and — I only throw it out. Sir — Mrs. Grundy might 
think it strange." "Very well! Feathers!" "Thank you, Sir," 
— and so on. 

Is it and so on, or not, through the whole black job of jobs, 
because of Mrs. Grundy and the gen-teel party ? 

I suppose you've thought about this ? I suppose you've reflected 
on what you're doing, and what you've done ? When you read 
about those poisonings for the burial society money, you consider 
how it is that burial societies ever came to be at all ? You per- 
fectly understand — you who are not the poor, and ought to set 
'em an example — that, besides making the whole thing costly, 
you've confused their minds about this burying, and have taught 
'em to confound expense and show^ with respect and affection. You 
know all you've got to answer for, you gen-teel parties ? I'm glad 
of it. 

I believe it's only the monkeys who are servile imitators, is it ? 
You reflect ! To be sure you do. So does Mrs. Grundy — and 
she casts reflections — don't she ? 

What animals are those who scratch shallow holes in the ground 
in crowded places, scarcely hide their dead in 'em, and become 
unnaturally infected by their dead, and die by thousands ? Vult- 
ures, I suppose. I think you call the Vulture an obscene bird ? 
I don't consider him agreeable, but I never caught him miscon- 
ducting himself in that way. 

My honourable friend, the dog — I call him my honourable 
friend in your Parliamentary sense, because I hate him — turns 
round three times before he goes to sleep. I ask him why ? He 
says he don't know ; but he always does it. Do t/ou know how 
you ever came to have that board of feathers carried on a fellow's 
head ? Come. You're a boastful race. Show j^ourselves superior 
to the dog, and tell me ! 

Now, I don't love many people ; but I do love the undertakers. 
I except them from the censure I pass upon you in general. They 
know you so well, that I look upon 'em as a sort of Eavens. They 
are so certain of your being gen-teel parties, that they stick at noth- 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 27 

ing. They are sure they've got the upper hand of you. Our pro- 
prietor was reading the paper, only last night, and there was an 
advertisement in it from a sensitive and libelled undertaker, to wit, 
that the allegation "that funerals were unnecessarily expensive, 
was an insult to his professional brethren." Ha, ha ! Why he 
knows he has you on the hip. It's nothing to him that their being 
unnecessarily expensive is a fact within the experience of all of you 
as glaring as the sun when there's not a cloud. He is certain that 
when you want a funeral " performed," he has only to be down 
upon you with Mrs. Grundy, to do what he likes with you — and 
then he'll go home and laugh like a Hyaena. 

I declare (supposing I wasn't detained against my will by our 
proprietor) that, if I had any arms, I'd take the undertakers to 'em ! 
There's another, in the same paper, who says they're libelled, in the 
accusation of having disgracefully disturbed the meeting in favour 
of what you call your General Interment Bill. Our establishment 
was in the Strand, that night. There was no crowd of undertakers' 
men there, with circulars in their pockets, calling on 'em to come 
in coloured clothes to make an uproar ; it wasn't undertakers' men 
who got in with forged orders to yell and screech ; it wasn't under- 
takers' men who made a brutal charge at the platform, and over- 
turned the ladies like a troop of horses. Of course not. / know 
all about it. 

But — and lay this well to heart, you Lords of the Creation, as 
you call yourselves ! — it is these undertakers' men to whom, in 
the last trying, bitter grief of life, you confide the loved and hon- 
oured forms of your sisters, mothers, daughters, wives. It is to 
these delicate gentry, and to their solemn remarks and decorous 
behaviour that you entrust the sacred ashes of all that has been the 
purest to you, and the dearest to you, in this world. Don't improve 
the breed ! Don't change the custom ! Be true to my opinion of 
you, and to Mrs. Grundy ! 

I nail the black flag of the Black Jobmaster to ' our cage — fig- 
uratively speaking — and I stand up for the gen-teel parties. So 
(but from diff"erent motives) does the Owl. You've got a chance, 
by means of that bill I've mentioned — by the bye, I call my own 
a General Interment Bill, for it buries everything it gets hold of — 
to alter the whole system ; to avail yourselves of the results of all 
improved European experience; to separate death from life; to 
surround it with everything that is sacred and solemn and to dis- 
sever it from everything that is shocking and sordid. You won't 
read the bill ? You won't dream of helping it 1 You won't think 
of looking at the evidence on which it's founded — Will you ? No. 
That's right ! 



28 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Gen-teel parties step forward, if you please, to the rescue of the 
Black Jobmaster ! The rats are with you. I am informed that 
they have unanimously passed a resolution that the closing of the 
London churchyards will be an insult to their professional brethren, 
and will oblige 'em "to fight for it." The Parrots are with you. 
The Owl is with you. The Raven is with you. No General 
Interments. Carrion for ever ! 

Ha, ha ! Halloa ! 



Household Words, Vol. 1, J^o. 17, July 20, 1850. 
THE GHOST OF ART. 

I AM a bachelor, residing in rather a dreary set of chambers in 
the Temple. They are situated in a square court of high houses, 
which would be a complete well, but for the want of water and 
the absence of a bucket. I live at the top of the house, among the 
tiles and sparrows. Like the little man in the nursery story, I live 
by myself, and all the bread and cheese I get — which is not much 
— I put upon a shelf. I need scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in 
love, and that the father of my charming JuUa objects to our union. 

I mention these little particulars as I might deliver a letter of 
introduction. The reader is now acquainted with me, and perhaps 
will condescend to listen to my narrative. 

I am naturally of a dreamy turn of mind ; and my abundant 
leisure — for I am called to tlie bar — coupled with much lonely 
listening to the twittering of sparrows, and the pattering of rain, 
has encouraged that disposition. In my "top set" I hear the wind 
howl, on a winter night, when the man on the ground floor believes 
it is perfectly still weather. The dim lamps with which our Honour- 
able Society (supposed to be as yet unconscious of the new discovery 
called Gas) make the horrors of the staircase visible, deepen the 
gloom which generally settles on my soul when I go home at night. 

I am in the Law, but not of it. I can't exactly make out what 
it means. I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes (in character) from 
ten to four ; and when I go out of Court, I don't know whether I 
am standing on my wig or my boots. 

It appears to me (I mention this in confidence) as if there were 
too much talk and too much law — as if some grains of truth were 
started overboard into a tempestuous sea of chaff. 

All this may make me mystical. Still, I am confident that 
what I am going to describe myself as having seen and heard, I 
actually did see and hear. 



THE GHOST OF ART. 29 

It is necessary that I should observe that I have a great delight 
in pictures. I am no painter myself, but I have studied pictures 
and written about them. I have seen all the most famous pictures 
in the world ; my education and reading have been suflBciently gen- 
eral to possess me beforehand with a knowledge of most of the sub- 
jects to which a Painter is likely to have recourse ; and, although I 
might be in some doubt as to the rightful fashion of the scabbard 
of King Lear's sword, for instance, I think I should know King 
Lear tolerably well, if I happened to meet with him. 

I go to all the Modern Exhibitions every season, and of course I 
revere the Royal Academy. I stand by its forty Academical articles 
almost as firmly as I stand by the thirty-nine Articles of the Church 
of England. I am convinced that in neither case could there be, by 
any rightful possibility, one article more or less. 

It is now exactly three years — three years ago, this very month 
— since I went from Westminster to the Temple, one Thursday 
afternoon, in a cheap steamboat. The sky was black, when I im- 
prudently walked on board. It began to thunder and lighten 
immediately afterwards, and the rain poured down in torrents. 
The deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below ; but so 
many passengers were there, smoking too, that I came up again, 
and buttoning my pea-coat, and standing in the shadow of the 
paddle-box, stood as upright as I could, and made the best of it. 

It was at this moment that I first beheld the terrible Being, 
who is the subject of my present recollections. 

Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of 
drying himself by the heat as fast as he got wet, was a shabby 
man in threadbare black, and with his hands in his pockets, who 
fascinated me from the memorable instant when I caught his eye. 

Where had I caught that eye before ? Who was he ? Why did 
I connect him, all at once, with the Vicar of Wakefield, Alfred the 
Great, Gil Bias, Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the 
Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, the Decameron of Boccaccio, Tam 
O'Shanter, the Marriage of the Doge of Venice with the Adriatic, 
and the Great Plague of London ? Why, when he bent one leg, 
and placed one hand upon the back of the seat near him, did my 
mind associate him wildly with the words, " Number one hundred 
and forty-two. Portrait of a gentleman ? " Could it be that I was 
going mad ? 

I looked at him again, and now I could have taken my affidavit 
that he belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield's family. Whether he 
was the Vicar, or Moses, or Mr. Burchell, or the Squire, or a con- 
glomeration of all four, I knew not ; but I was impelled to seize 
him by the throat, and charge him with being, in some fell way, 



30 REPRINTED PIECES. 

connected with the Primrose blood. He looked up at the rain, 
and then — oh Heaven ! — ■ he became Saint John. He folded his 
arms, resigning himself to the weather, and I was frantically in- 
clined to address him as the Spectator, and firmly demand to know 
what he had done with Sir Roger de Coverley. 

The frightful suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned 
upon me with redoubled force. Meantime, this awful stranger, 
inexplicably linked to my distress, stood drying himself at the fun- 
nel ; and ever, as the steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a mist 
around him, I saw through the ghostly medium all the people I 
have mentioned, and a score more, sacred and profane. 

I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as 
it thundered and lightened, to grapple with this man, or demon, 
and plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself — I 
know not how — to speak to him, and in a pause of the storm, 
I crossed the deck, and said : 

"What are you?" 

He replied, hoarsely, " A Model." 

"A what?" said I. 

"A Model," he replied. "I sets to the profession for a bob 
a-hour." (All through this narrative I give his own words, which 
are indelibly imprinted on my memory.) 

The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight 
of the restoration of my confidence in my own sanity, I cannot 
describe. I should have fallen on his neck, but for the conscious- 
ness of being observed by the man at the wheel. 

"You then," said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that 
I wrung the rain out of his coat-cuff, " are the gentleman whom I 
have so frequently contemplated, in connection with a high-backed 
chair with a red cushion, and a table with twisted legs." 

"I am that Model," he rejoined moodily, "and I wish I was 
anything else." 

"Say not so," I returned. "I have seen you in the society of 
many beautiful young women;" as in truth I had, and always 
(I now remember) in the act of making the most of his legs. 

"No doubt," said he. "And you've seen me along with warses 
of flowers, and any number of table-kivers, and antique cabinets, 
and warious gammon." 

" Sir ? " said I. 

"And warious gammon," he repeated, in a louder voice. "You 
might have seen me in armour, too, if you had looked sharp. 
Blessed if I ha'n't stood in half the suits of armour as ever came 
out of Pratt's shop : and sat, for weeks together, a eating nothing, 
out of half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the 



THE GHOST OF ART. 31 

purpose out of Storrses, and Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and 
Davenportseseses. " 

Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he would 
never have found an end for the last word. But, at length it rolled 
sullenly away with the thunder. 

"Pardon me," said I, "you are a well-favoured, well-made man, 
and yet — forgive me — I find, on examining my mind, that I as- 
sociate you with — that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in 
short — excuse me — a kind of powerful monster." 

"It would be a wonder if it didn't," he said. " Do you know 
what my points are ? " 

" No," said I. 

"My throat and my legs," said he. "When I don't set for a 
head, I mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted 
you was a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, 
I suppose you'd see a lot of lumps and bumps there, that would 
never be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of 
only my throat. Wouldn't you ? " 

"Probably," said I, surveying him. 

"Why, it stands to reason," said the Model. "Work another 
week at my legs, and it'll be the same thing. You'll make 'em out 
as knotty and as knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two 
old trees. Then, take and stick my legs and throat on to another 
man's body, and you'll make a reg'lar monster. And that's the 
way the public gets their reg'lar monsters, every first Monday in 
May, when the Royal Academy Exhibition opens." 

"You are a critic," said I, with an air of deference. 

"I'm in an uncommon ill humour, if that's it," rejoined the 
Model, with great indignation. "As if it warn't bad enough for 
a bob a-hour, for a man to be mixing himself up with that there 
jolly old furniter that one 'ud think the public know'd the wery 
nails in by this time — or to be putting on greasy old 'ats and 
cloaks, and playing tambourines in the Bay o' Naples, with Wesu- 
vius a smokin' according to pattern in the background, and the 
wines a bearing wonderful in the middle distance — or to be un- 
politely kicking up his legs among a lot o' gals, with no reason 
whatever in his mind, but to show 'em — as if this warn't bad 
enough, I'm to go and be thrown out of employment too ! " 

" Surely no ! " said I. 

"Surely yes," said the indignant Model. "But I'll grow 

ONE." 

The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the 
last words, can never be effaced from my remembrance. My blood 
ran cold. 



32 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

I asked of myself, what was it that this desperate Being was 
resolved to grow. My breast made no response. 

I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a 
scornful laugh, he uttered this dark prophecy : 

" I'll grow one. And, mark my words, it shall haunt 
YOU ! " 

We parted in the storm, after I had forced half-a-crown on his 
acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude that something 
supernatural happened to the steamboat, as it bore his reeking 
figure down the river ; but it never got into the papers. 

Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession with- 
out any vicissitudes ; never holding so much as a motion, of course. 
At the expiration of that period, I found myself making my way 
home to the Temple, one night, in precisely such another storm of 
thunder and lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on 
board the steamboat — except that this storm, bursting over the 
town at midnight, was rendered much more awful by the darkness 
and the hour. 

As I turned into my court, I really thought a thunderbolt would 
fall, and plough the pavement up. Every brick and stone in the 
place seemed to have an echo of its own for the thunder. The 
waterspouts were overcharged, and the rain came tearing down 
from the house-tops as if they had been mountain-tops. 

Mrs. Parkins, my laundress — wife of Parkins the porter, then 
newly dead of a dropsy — had particular instructions to place a 
bedroom candle and a match under the staircase lamp on my land- 
ing, in order that I might light my candle there, whenever I came 
home. Mrs. Parkins invariably disregarding all instructions, they 
were never there. Thus it happened that on this occasion I groped 
my way into my sitting-room to find the candle, and came out to 
light it. 

What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, 
shining with wet as if he had never been dry since our last meet- 
ing, stood the mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the 
steam-boat in a thunder-storm, two years before ! His prediction 
rushed upon my mind, and I turned faint. 

"I said I'd do it," he observed, in a hollow voice, "and I have 
done it. May I come in ? " 

" Misguided creature, what have you done ? " I returned. 

"I'll let you know," was his reply, "if you'll let me in." 

Could it be murder that he had done? And had he been so 
successful that he wanted to do it again, at my expense ? 

I hesitated. 

" May I come in 1 " said he. 



THE GHOST OF ART. 33 

I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could 
command, and he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw 
that the lower part of his face was tied up, in what is commonly 
called a Belcher handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, 
and exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his upper lip, 
twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon 
his breast. 

"What is this?" I exclaimed involuntarily, "and what have 
you become 1 " 

" I am the Ghost of Art ! " said he. 

The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunder-storm 
at midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than 
alive, I surveyed him in silence. 

"The German taste came up," said he, "and threw me out of 
bread. I am ready for the taste now." 

He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his 
arms, and said, 

" Severity ! " 

I shuddered. It was so severe. 

He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both 
hands on the staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left 
among my books, said : 

" Benevolence." 

I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the 
beard. The man might have left his face alone, or had no face. 
The beard did everything. 

He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of 
his head threw up his beard at the chin. 

" That's death ! " said he. 

He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his beard 
a little awry ; at the same time making it stick out before him. 

" Adoration, or a vow of vengeance," he observed. 

He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulgy 
with the upper part of his beard. 

" Romantic character," said he. 

He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivy-bush. 
"Jealousy," said he. He gave it an ingenious twist in the air, and 
informed me that he was carousing. He made it shaggy with his 
fingers — and it was Despair ; lank — and it was avarice : tossed 
it all kinds of ways — and it was rage. The beard did everything. 

" I am the Ghost of Art," said he. " Two bob a-day now, and 
more when it's longer ! Hair's the true expression. There is no 
other. I SAID I'd grow it, and I've grown it, and it shall 

HAUNT YOU ! " 



34 REPRINTED PIECES. 

He may have tumbled down-stairs in the dark, but he never 
walked down or ran down. I looked over the banisters, and I was 
alone with the thunder. 

Need I add more of my terrific fate ? It has haunted me ever 
since. It glares upon me from the walls of the Royal Academy, 
(except when Maclise subdues it to his genius), it fills my soul 
with terror at the British Institution, it lures young artists on to 
their destruction. Go where I will, the Ghost of Art, eternally 
working the passions in hair, and expressing everything by beard, 
pursues me. The prediction is accomplished, and the victim has 
no rest. 



Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 18, July 27, 1850. 
THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 

We are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow 
Street Police. To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount 
of humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being 
men of very indifferent character, and far too much in the habit of 
consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a public occa- 
sion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of 
themselves. Continually puffed besides by incompetent magistrates 
anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and hand-in-glove with 
the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of superstition. 
Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly ineffective, and 
as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in their opera- 
tions, they remain with some people a superstition to the present 
day. 

On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the estab- 
lishment of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, 
proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business in such a 
workmanlike manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged 
in the service of the public, that the public really do not know 
enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with 
this conviction, and interested in the men themselves, we repre- 
sented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be glad, 
if there were no official objection, to have some talk with the De- 
tectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given, a 
certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a social 
conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The Household 
Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In consequence 
of which appointment the party "came off," which we are about to 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 35 

describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it 
might for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or disagreeable 
to respectable, individuals, to touch upon in print, our description is 
as exact as we can make it. 

The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanc- 
torum of Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader's 
fancy, will best represent that magnificent chamber. We merely 
stipulate for a round table in the middle, with some glasses and 
cigars arranged upon it ; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed 
in between that stately piece of furniture and the wall. 

It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street 
are hot and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the 
Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are 
constantly setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land ; 
and there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, 
deafening us for the moment, through the open windows. 

Just at dusk. Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced ; but 
we do not undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the 
names here mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. 
Inspector Wield is a middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a 
large, moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of emphasis- 
ing his conversation by the aid of a corpulent forefinger, which is 
constantly in juxtaposition with his eyes or nose. Inspector Stalker 
is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman — in appearance not at all un- 
like a very acute, thoroughly-trained schoolmaster, from the Normal 
Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield one might have known, 
perhaps, for what he is — Inspector Stalker, never. 

The ceremonies of reception over. Inspectors Wield and Stalker 
observe that they have brought some sergeants with them. The 
sergeants are presented — five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Ser- 
geant Witchem, Sergeant Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant 
Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland Yard, 
with one exception. They sit down in a semi-circle (the two Inspec- 
tors at the two ends) at a little distance from the round table, facing 
the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately 
takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the 
editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in company 
could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest hesitation, 
twenty years hence. 

The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about 
fifty years of age, with a ruddy face and a high sunburnt forehead, 
has the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army — he might 
have sat to Wilkie for the Soldier in the Eeading of the Will. He 
is famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small 



36 REPRINTED PIECES. 

beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man. 
Sergeant Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and marked with the 
small-pox, has something of a reserved and thoughtful air, as if he 
were engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned 
for his acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth- 
faced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of sim- 
plicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light-haired, 
well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at pursuing private 
inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry Sergeant of 
meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a door and ask 
a series of questions in any mild character you choose to prescribe 
to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as innocent as an 
infant. They are, one and all, respectable-looking men; of per- 
fectly good deportment and unusual intelligence ; with nothing 
lounging or slinking in their manners ; with an air of keen obser- 
vation and quick perception when addressed; and generally pre- 
senting in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually 
leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all good 
eyes ; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever 
they speak to. 

We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very 
temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest 
amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspec- 
tor Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his 
right hand, and says, " Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can't do 
better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why 1 
I'll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is better acquainted with the swell 
mob than any officer in London." 

Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, 
we turn to Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well- 
chosen language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the 
whole of his brother officers are closely interested in attending to 
what he says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to 
strike in, one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the 
conversation becomes general. But these brother officers only come 
in to the assistance of each other — not to the contradiction — and 
a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From the swell 
mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, public- 
house dances, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out 
" gonophing," and other " schools." It is observable throughout 
these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always 
exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures arises, 
everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him. 

When we have exhausted the various schools of Art — during 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 37 

which discussion the whole body have remained profoundly atten- 
tive, except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way 
has induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the win- 
dow in that direction, behind his next neighbour's back — we bur- 
row for information on such points as the following. Whether 
there really are any highway robberies in London, or whether some 
circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved 
party, usually precede the robberies complained of, under that 
head, which quite change their character? Certainly the latter, 
almost always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where 
servants are necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion 
ever becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need 
be cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so 
common or deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in 
a place of public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an 
officer knows a thief — supposing them, beforehand, strangers to 
each other — because each recognises in the other, under all dis- 
guise, an inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is 
not the purpose of being entertained ? Yes. That's the way 
exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the 
alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, 
or penitentiaries, or anywhere ? In general, nothing more absurd. 
Lying is their habit and their trade ; and they would rather lie — 
even if they hadn't an interest in it, and didn't want to make them- 
selves agreeable — than tell the truth. 

From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated 
and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within 
the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery 
of almost all of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the 
murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our 
guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the 
murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. 
We learn from him that his errand was not announced to the 
passengers, who may have no idea of it to this hour. That he 
went below, with the captain, lamp in hand — it being dark, and 
the whole steerage abed and sea-sick — and engaged the Mrs. Man- 
ning who ivas on board, in a conversation about her luggage, until 
she was, with no small pains, induced to raise her head, and turn 
her face towards the light. Satisfied that she was not the object 
of his search, he quietly re-embarked in the Government steamer 
alongside, and steamed home again with the intelligence. 

When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a 
considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, 
whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seats. Sergeant 



38 EEPKINTED PIECES. 

Witchem leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of 
his legs, then modestly speaks as follows : 

" My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my 
taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn't to tell what he has 
done himself ; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, 
as nobody but myself can tell it, I'll do it in the best way I can, 
if it should meet your approval." 

We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, 
and we all compose ourselves to listen with great interest and 
attention. 

"Tally-ho Thompson," says Sergeant Witchem, after merely 
wetting his lips with his brandy-and-water, " Tally-ho Thompson 
was a famous horse-stealer, couper, and nagsman. Thompson, in 
conjunction with a pal that occasionally worked with him, gam- 
moned a countryman out of a good round sum of money, under 
pretence of getting him a situation — the regular old dodge — and 
was afterwards in the ' Hue and Cry ' for a horse — a horse that 
he stole, down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, 
and I applied myself, of course, in the first instance, to discovering 
where he was. Now, Thompson's wife lived, along with a little 
daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that Thompson was somewhere 
in the country, I watched the house — especially at post-time in 
the morning — thinking Thompson was pretty likely to write to 
her. Sure enough, one morning the postman comes up, and de- 
livers a letter at Mrs. Thompson's door. Little girl opens the 
door, and takes it in. We're not always sure of postmen, though 
the people at the post-offices are always very obliging. A post- 
man may help us, or he may not, — just as it happens. How- 
ever, I go across the road, and I say to the postman, after he has 
left the letter, ' Good morning ! how are you ? ' ' How are you .? ' 
says he. 'You've just delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson.' 
'Yes, I have.' 'You didn't happen to remark what the post- 
mark was, perhaps?' 'No,' says he, 'I didn't.' 'Come,' says I, 
' I'll be plain with you. I'm in a small way of business, and I 
have given Thompson credit, and I can't afford to lose what he 
owes me. I know he's got money, and I know he's in the country, 
and if you could tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very 
much obliged to you, and you'd do a service to a tradesman in a 
small way of business that can't afford a loss.' ' Well,' he said, 
' I do assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was ; 
all I know is, that there was money in the letter — I should say a 
sovereign.' This was enough for me, because of course I knew 
that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she'd 
write to Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 39 

So I said, ' Thankee ' to the postman, and I kept on the watch. 
In the afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I 
followed her. She went into a stationer's shop, and I needn't say- 
to you that I looked in at the window. She bought some writing- 
paper and envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, ' That'll do ! ' 

— watch her home again — and don't go away, you may be sure, 
knowing that Mrs. Thompson was writing her letter to Tally-ho, 
and that the letter would be posted presently. In about an hour 
or so, out came the little girl again, with the letter in her hand. 
I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it might 
have been ; but I couldn't see the direction of the letter, because 
she held it with the seal upwards. However, I observed that on 
the back of the letter there was what we call a kiss — a drop of 
wax by the side of the seal — and again, you understand, that was 
enough for me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, 

jthen went into the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he 
came out, I told him, ' Now, I'm an Officer in the Detective Force ; 
there's a letter with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man 
that I'm in search of ; and what I have to ask of you, is, that you 
will let me look at the direction of that letter.' He was very civil 

— took a lot of letters from the box in the window — shook 'em 
out on the counter with the faces downwards — and there among 
'm was the identical letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. 

Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, B , to be left till called for. 

Down I went to B (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that 

night. Early next morning I went to the Post Office; saw the 
gentleman in charge of that department ; told him who I was ; 
and that my object was to see, and track, the party that should 
come for the letter for Mr. Thomas Pigeon. He was veiy polite, 
and said, ' You shall have every assistance we can give you ; you 
can wait inside the office ; and we'll take care to let you know 
when anybody comes for the letter.' Well, I waited there three 
days, and began to think that nobody ever would come. At last 
the clerk whispered to me, ' Here ! Detective ! Somebody's come 
for the letter ! ' ' Keep him a minute,' said I, and I ran round to 
the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the ap- 
pearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle — stretching 
the bridle across the pavement, while he waited at the Post Office 
Window for the letter. I began to pat the horse, and that ; and 
I said to the boy, ' Why, this is Mr. Jones's Mare ! ' 'No. It 
an't.' ' No ? ' said I. ' She's very like Mr. Jones's Mare ! ' ' She 
an't Mr. Jones's Mare, anyhow,' says he. ' It's Mr. So and So's, 
of the Warwick Arms.' And up he jumped, and oflf he went — 
letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick 



40 REPRINTED PIECES. 

after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, 
by one gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, 
where there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of 
brandy-and- water. He came in directly, and handed her the letter. 
She casually looked at it, without saying anything, and stuck it up 
behind the glass over the chimney-piece. What was to be done next ? 

" I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and- 
water (looking pretty sharp at the letter the while) but I couldn't 
see my way out of it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, 
but there had been a horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it 
was full. I was obliged to put up somewhere else, but I came 
backwards and forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there 
was the letter always behind the glass. At last I thought I'd 
write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that would do. 
So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr. 
John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what that 
would do. In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched 
the postman down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he 
reached the Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. 
' Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here V ' No ! ^ stop a bit 
though,' says the barmaid ; and she took down the letter behind 
the glass. 'No,' says she, 'it's Thomas, and he is not staying 
here. Would you do me a favour, and post this for me, as it is so 
wet 1 ' The postman said Yes ; she folded it in another envelope, 
directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat, and away he 
went. 

" I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. 
It was addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R , North- 
amptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started directly 

for R ; I said the same at the Post Office there, as I had said 

at B ; and again I waited three days before anybody came. 

At last another chap on horseback came. 'Any letters for Mr. 
Thomas Pigeon 1 ' ' Where do you come from 1 ' ' New Inn, near 
R .' He got the letter, and away he went at a canter. 

" I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R , and 

hearing it was a solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, 
about a couple of miles from the station, I thought I'd go and have 
a look at it. I found it what it had been described, and sauntered 
in, to look about me. The landlady was in the bar, and I was try- 
ing to get into conversation with her ; asked her how business was, 
and spoke about the wet weather, and so on ; when I saw, through 
an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a sort of parlour, or 
kitchen ; and one of those men, according to the description I had 
of him, was Tally-ho Thompson ! 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 41 

"I went and sat down among 'em, and tried to make things 
agreeable ; but they were very shy — wouldn't talk at all — looked 
at me, and at one another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. 
I reckoned 'em up, and finding that they were all three bigger men 
than me, and considering that their looks were ugly — that it was 
a lonely place — railroad station two miles off — and night coming 
on — thought I couldn't do better than have a drop of brandy-and- 
water to keep my courage up. So I called for my brandy-and- 
water ; and as I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson got 
up and went out. 

" Now the diflBculty of it was, that I wasn't sure it was Thomp- 
son, because I had never set eyes on him before ; and what I had 
wanted was to be quite certain of him. However, there was noth- 
ing for it now, but to follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found 
him talking, outside in the yard, with the landlady. It turned out 
afterwards that he was wanted by a Northampton officer for some- 
thing else, and that, knowing that officer to be pock-marked (as I 
am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have observed, I found 
him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand upon his 
shoulder — this way — and said, ' Tally-ho Thompson, it's no use. 
I know you. I'm an officer from London, and I take you into 
custody for felony ! ' ' That be d — d ! ' says Tally-ho Thompson. 

"We went back into the house, and the two friends began to 
cut up rough, and their looks didn't please me at all, I assure you. 
' Let the man go. What are you going to do with him ? ' ' I'll 
tell you what I'm going to do with him. I'm going to take him 
to London to-night, as sure as I'm alive. I'm not alone here, 
whatever you may think. You mind your own business, and keep 
yourselves to yourselves. It'll be better for you, for I know you 
both very well.' /'d never seen or heard of 'em in all my life, but 
my bouncing cowed 'em a bit, and they kept off, while Thompson 
was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they 
might be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson ; 
so I said to the landlady, ' What men have you got in the house, 
Missis?' 'We haven't got no men here,' she says, sulkily. 'You 
have got an ostler, I suppose?' 'Yes, we've got an ostler.' 'Let 
me see him.' Presently he came, and a shaggy-headed young fel- 
low he was. 'Now attend to me, young man,' says I; 'I'm a 
Detective Officer from London. This man's name is Thompson. 
I have taken him into custody for felony. I am going to take him 
to the railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen's name to 
assist me ; and mind you, my friend, you'll get yourself into more 
trouble than you know of, if you don't ! ' You never saw a person 
open his eyes so wide. ' Now, Thompson, come along ! ' says I. 



42 REPRINTED PIECES. 

But when I took out the handcuffs, Thompson cries, ' No ! None 
of that ! I won't stand them I I'll go along with you quiet, but 
I won't bear none of that ! ' ' Tally-ho Thompson,' I said, ' I'm 
willing to behave as a man to you, if you are willing to behave as 
a man to me. Give me your word that you'll come peaceably 
along, and I don't want to handcuff you.' 'I will,' says Thomp- 
son, 'but I'll have a glass of brandy first.' 'I don't care if I've 
another,' said I. 'We'll have two more, Missis,' said the friends, 
' and con-found you, Constable, you'll give your man a drop, won't 
you 1 ' I was agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then 
my man and I took Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I 
carried him to London that night. He was afterwards acquitted, 
on account of a defect in the evidence ; and I understand he always 
praises me up to the skies, and says I'm one of the best of men." 

This story coming to a termination amidst general applause. 
Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his 
host, and thus delivers himself : 

" It wasn't a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused 
of forging the Sou' Western Railway debentures — it was only 
t'other day — because the reason why 1 I'll tell you. 

" I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory 
over yonder there," — indicating any region on the Surrey side of 
the river — "where he bought second-hand carriages; so after I'd 
tried in vain to get hold of him by other means, I wrote him a let- 
ter in an assumed name, saying that I'd got a horse and shay to 
dispose of, and would drive down next day that he might view the 
lot, and make an offer — very reasonable it was, I said — a reg'lar 
bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that's 
in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, a 
precious smart turn-out it was — quite a slap-up thing ! Down 
we drove, accordingly, with a friend (who's not in the Force him- 
self) ; and leaving my friend in the shay near a public-house, to 
take care of the horse, we went to the factory, which was some 
little way off. In the factory, there was a number of strong fel- 
lows at work, and after reckoning 'em up, it was clear to me that 
it wouldn't do to' try it on there. They were too many for us. 
We must get our man out of doors. ' Mr. Fikey at home 1 ' ' No, 
he ain't.' ' Expected home soon ? ' 'Why, no, not soon.' 'Ah! 
Is his brother here?' '/'m his brother.' 'Oh! well, this is an 
ill-conwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I'd 
got a little turn-out to dispose of, and I've took the trouble to 
bring the turn-out down a-purpose, and now he ain't in the way.' 
' No, he ain't in the way. You couldn't make it convenient to call 
again, could you 1 ' ' Why, no, I couldn't. I want to sell ; that's 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 43 

the fact ; and I can't put it off. Could you find him anywheres ? ' 
At first he said No, he couldn't, and then he wasn't sure about it, 
and then he'd go and try. So at last he went up-stairs, where 
there was a sort of loft, and presently down comes my man himself 
in his shirt-sleeves. 

" 'Well,' he says, 'this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of 
yours.' 'Yes,' I says, 'it^'s rayther a pressing matter, and you'll 
find it a bargain — dirt cheap.' 'I ain't in partickler want of a 
bargain just now,' he says, ' but where is it ? ' ' Why,' I says, ' the 
turn-out's just outside. Come and look at it.' He hasn't any sus- 
picions, and away we go. And the first thing that happens is, that 
the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no more of driving 
than a child) when he takes a little trot along the road to show his 
paces. You never saw such a game in your life ! 

" When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a stand- 
still again, Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge — 
me too. ' There, sir ! ' I says. ' There's a neat thing ! ' 'It ain't 
a bad style of thing,' he says. ' I believe you,' says I. ' And there's 
a horse ! ' — for I saw him looking at it. ' Rising eight ! ' I says, 
rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless you, there ain't a man in the world 
knows less of horses than I do, but I'd heard my friend at the 
Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I says, as knowing as 
possible, 'Rising Eight.') 'Rising eight, is he ? ' says he. 'Rising 
eight,' says I. ' Well,' he says, 'what do you want for it ?' ' Why, 
the first and last figure for the whole concern is five-and-twenty 
pound ! ' ' That's very cheap ! ' he says, looking at me. ' Ain't it 1 ' 
I says. ' I told you it was a bargain ! Now, without any higgling 
and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that's my price. 
Further, I'll make it easy to you, and take half the money down, 
and you can do a bit of stiffs for the balance.' 'Well,' he says 
again, 'that's very cheap.' 'I believe you,' says I; 'get in and 
try it, and you'll buy it. Come ! take a trial ! ' 

" Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, 
to show him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the pub- 
lic-house window to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and 
didn't know whether it was him, or wasn't — because the reason 
why ? I'll tell you, — on account of his having shaved his whiskers. 
' It's a clever little horse,' he says, ' and trots well ; and the shay 
runs light.' 'Not a doubt about it,' I says. 'And now, Mr. 
Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without wasting any more 
of your time. The fact is, I'm Inspector Wield, and you're my 
prisoner.' ' You don't mean that ? ' he says. ' I do, indeed.' ' Then 
burn my body,' says Fikey, ' if this ain't too bad ! ' 
1 Give a bill. 



44 REPRINTED PIECES. 

" Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. 
' I hope you'll let me have my coat 1 ' he says. ' By all means.' 
' Well, then, let's drive to the factory.' ' Why, not exactly that, I 
think,' said I; 'I've been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we 
send for it.' He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, 
and we drove him up to London, comfortable." 

This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a 
general proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced 
officer, with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the "Butcher's 
Story."! 

The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange 
air of simphcity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling 
tone of voice, to relate the Butcher's Story, thus : 

" It's just about six years ago, now, since information was given 
at Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and 
silks going on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions 
were given for the business being looked into ; and Straw, and Fen- 
dall, and me, we were all in it." 

"When you received your instructions," said we, "you went 
away, and held a sort of Cabinet Council together 1 " 

The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, " Ye-es. Just so. We 
turned it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we 
went into it, that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordina- 
rily cheap — much cheaper than they could have been if they had 
been honestly come by. The receivers were in the trade, and kept 
capital shops — establishments of the first respectability — one of 
'em at the West End, one down in Westminster. After a lot of 
watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, we found 
that the job was managed, and the purchases of the stolen goods 
made, at a little public-house near Smithfield, down by Saint Bar- 
tholomew's ; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves, 
took 'em for that purpose, don't you see ? and made appointments 
to meet the people that went between themselves and the receivers. 
This public-house was principally used by journeymen butchers from 
the country, out of place, and in want of situations ; so, what did 
we do, but — ha, ha, ha ! — we agreed that I should be dressed up 
like a butcher myself, and go and live there ! " 

Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to 
bear upon a purpose, than that which picked out this officer for the 
part. Nothing in all creation could have suited him better. Even 
while he spoke, he became a greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured, 
chuckle-headed, unsuspicious, and confiding young butcher. His 
very hair seemed to have suet in it, as he made it smooth upon his 
1" Household Words," Vol. 1, No. 20, Aug. 10, 1850. 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 45 

head, and his fresh complexion to be lubricated by large quantities 
of animal food. 

" So I — ha, ha, ha ! " (always with the confiding snigger of 

the foolish young butcher) "so I dressed myself in the regular way, 
made up a little bundle of clothes, and went to the public-house, 
and asked if I could have a lodging there ? They says, ' yes, you 
can have a lodging here,' and I got a bedroom, and settled myself 
down in the tap. There was a number of people about the place, 
and coming backwards and forwards to the house; and first one 
says, and then another says, ' Are you from the country, young 
man ? ' ' Yes,' I says, ' I am. I'm come out of Northamptonshire, 
and I'm quite lonely here, for I don't know London at all, and it's 
such a mighty big town.' ' It is a big town,' they says. ' Oh, it's 
a veri/ big town ! ' I says. ' Really and truly I never was in such 
a town. It quite confuses of me ! ' — and all that, you know. 

" When some of the Journeymen Butchers that used the house 
found that I wanted a place, they says, ' Oh, we'll get you a place ! ' 
and they actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate Market, 
Newport Market, Clare, Carnaby — I don't know where all. But 
the wages was — ha, ha, ha ! — was not sufficient, and I never could 
suit myself, don't you see 1 Some of the queer frequenters of the 
house were a little suspicious of me at first, and I was obliged to 
be very cautious indeed, how I communicated with Straw or Fen- 
dall. Sometimes, when I went out, pretending to stop and look 
into the shop windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to see 
some of 'em following me ; but, being perhaps better accustomed 
than they thought for, to that sort of thing, I used to lead 'em on 
as far as I thought necessary or convenient — sometimes a long way 
— and then turn sharp round, and meet 'em, and say, ' Oh, dear, 
how glad I am to come upon you so fortunate ! This London's 
such a place, I'm blowed if I ain't lost again ! ' And then we'd go 
back all together, to the public-liouse, and — ha, ha, ha ! and smoke 
our pipes, don't you see ? 

" They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common 
thing, while I was living there, for some of 'em to take me out, and 
show me London. They showed me the Prisons — showed me New- 
gate — and when they showed me Newgate, I stops at the place 
where the Porters pitch their loads, and says, 'Oh dear, is this 
where they hang the men ? Oh Lor ! ' ' That ! ' they says, ' what 
a simple cove he is ! That ain't it ! ' And then, they pointed out 
which was it, and I says ' Lor ! ' and they says, ' Now you'll know 
it agen, won't you ? ' And I said I thought I should if I tried 
hard — and I assure you I kept a sharp look-out for the City 
Police when we were out in this way, for if any of 'em had hap- 



46 REPRINTED PIECES. 

pened to *know me, and had spoke to me, it would have been all 
up in a minute. However, by good luck such a thing never hap- 
pened, and all went on quiet : though the difficulties I had in com- 
municating with my brother officers were quite extraordinary, 

" The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the 
Warehouse Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlour. 
For a long time, I never could get into this parlour, or see what 
was done there. As I sat smoking my pipe, like an innocent 
young chap, by the tap-room fire, I'd hear some of the parties to 
the robbery, as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, 
'Who's that? What does Ae do here ? ' 'Bless your soul,' says 
the landlord, 'he's only a ' — ha, ha, ha ! — ' he's only a green young 
fellow from the country, as is looking for a butcher's sitiwation. 
Don't mind him I ' So, in course of time, they were so convinced of 
my being green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as 
free of the parlour as any of 'em, and I have seen as much as Sev- 
enty Pounds worth of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was 
stolen from a warehouse in Friday Street. After the sale the buy- 
ers always stood treat — hot supper, or dinner, or what not — and 
they'd say on those occasions, ' Come on, Butcher ! Put your best 
leg foremost, young 'un, and walk into it ! ' Which I used to do 

— and hear, at table, all manner of particulars that it was very 
important for us Detectives to know. 

" This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all 
the time, and never was out of the Butcher's dress — except in 
bed. At last, when I had followed seven of the thieves, and set 
'em to rights — that's an expression of ours, don't you see, by 
which I mean to say that I traced 'em, and found out where the rob- 
beries were done, and all about 'em — Straw, and Fendall, and I, 
gave one another the office, and at a time agreed upon, a descent 
was made upon the public-house, and the apprehensions effected. 
One of the first things the officers did, was to collar me — for the 
parties to the robbery weren't to suppose yet that I was anything 
but a Butcher — on which the landlord cries out, ' Don't take A^m,' 
he says, ' whatever you do ! He's only a poor young chap from 
the country, and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth ! ' However, they 

— ha, ha, ha ! — they took me, and pretended to search my bed- 
room, where nothing was found but an old fiddle belonging to the 
landlord, that had got there somehow or another. But, it entirely 
changed the landlord's opinion, for when it was produced, he says, 
' My fiddle ! The Butcher's a pur-loiner ! I give him into cus- 
tody for the robbery of a musical instrument ! ' 

" The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not 
taken yet. He had told me, in confidence, that he had his suspicions 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 47 

there was something wrong (on account of the City Police having 
captured one of the party), and that he was going to make himself 
scarce. I asked him, ' Where do you mean to go, Mr. Shepherd- 
son 1 ' ' Why, Butcher,' says he, ' the Setting Moon, in the Com- 
mercial Road, is a snug house, and I shall hang out there for a 
time. I shall call myself Simpson, which appears to me to be a 
modest sort of a name. Perhaps you'll give us a look in. Butcher 1 ' 
' Well,' says I, ' I think I ivill give you a call ' — which I fully 
intended, don't you see, because, of course, he was to be taken ! I 
went over to the Setting Moon next day, with a brother officer, 
and asked at the bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, up- 
stairs. As we were going up, he looks down over the banisters, 
and calls out, ' Halloa, Butcher ! is that you 1 ' ' Yes, it's me. 
How do you find yourself?' 'Bobbish,' he says; 'but who's 
that with you 1 ' ' It's only a young man, that's a friend of mine,' I 
says. ' Come along, then,' says he ; 'any friend of the Butcher's is 
as welcome as the Butcher ! ' So, I made my friend acquainted 
with him, and we took him into custody. 

"You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when 
they first knew that I wasn't a Butcher, after all ! I wasn't pro- 
duced at the first examination, when there was a remand ; but I 
was at the second. And when I stepped into the box, in full police 
uniform, and the whole party saw how they had been done, act- 
ually a groan of horror and dismay proceeded from 'em in the dock ! 

" At the Old Bailey, when their trials came on, Mr. Clarkson 
was engaged for the defence, and he couldn't make out how it was, 
about the Butcher. He thought, all along, it was a real Butcher. 
When the counsel for the prosecution said, ' I will now call before 
you, gentlemen, the Police-officer,' meaning myself, Mr. Clarkson 
says, 'Why Police-officer? Why more Police-officers? I don't 
want Police. We have had a great deal too much of the Police. 
I want the Butcher ! ' However, sir, he had the Butcher and the 
Police-officer, both in one. Out of seven prisoners committed for 
trial, five were found guilty, and some of 'em were transported. 
The respectable firm at the West End got a term of imprisonment ; 
and that's the Butcher's Story ! " 

The story done, the chuckle-headed Butcher again resolved him- 
self into the smooth-faced Detective. But, he was so extremely 
tickled by their having taken him about, when he was that Dragon 
in disguise, to show him London, that he could not help reverting 
to that point in his narrative ; and gently repeating with the 
Butcher snigger, "'Oh dear,' I says, 'is that where they hang 
the men ? Oh Lor ! ' 'That 1 ' says they. ' What a simple cove 
he is ! '" 



48 REPRINTED PIECES. 

It being now late, and the party very modest in their fear of 
being too diffuse, there were some tokens of separation ; when Ser- 
geant Dornton, the soldierly-looking man, said, looking round him 
with a smile : 

" Before we break up, sir, perhaps you might have some amuse- 
ment in hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet Bag. They are very 
short ; and, I think, curious." 

We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as cordially as Mr. Shepherdson 
welcomed the false Butcher at the Setting Moon. Sergeant Dorn- 
ton proceeded. 

" In 1847, I was despatched to Chatham, in search of one Me- 
sheck, a Jew. He had been carrying on, pretty heavily, in the 
bill-stealing way, getting acceptances from young men of good con- 
nections (in the army chiefly), on pretence of discount, and bolting 
with the same. 

" Mesheck was off, before I got to Chatham. All I could learn 
about him was, that he had gone, probably to London, and had 
with him — a Carpet Bag. 

"I came back to town, by the last train from Black wall, and 
made inquiries concerning a Jew passenger with — a Carpet Bag. 

" The office was shut up, it being the last train. There were 
only two or three porters left. Looking after a Jew with a Carpet 
Bag, on the Blackwall Railway, which was then the highroad to a 
great Military Depot, was worse than looking after a needle in a 
hayrick. But it happened that one of these porters had carried, 
for a certain Jew, to a certain public-house, a certain — Carpet 



" I went to the public-house, but the Jew had only left his lug- 
gage there for a few hours, and had called for it in a cab, and taken 
it away. I put such questions there, and to the porter, as I thought 
prudent, and got at this description of— the Carpet Bag. 

" It was a bag which had, on one side of it, worked in worsted, 
a green parrot on a stand. A green parrot on a stand was the 
means by which to identify that — Carpet Bag. 

" I traced Mesheck, by means of this green parrot on a stand, to 
Cheltenham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to the Atlantic Ocean. 
At Liverpool he was too many for me. He had gone to the United 
States, and I gave up all thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of his 
— Carpet Bag. 

" Many months afterwards — near a year afterwards — there was 
a bank in Ireland robbed of seven thousand pounds, by a person of 
the name of Doctor Dundey, who escaped to America ; from which 
country some of the stolen notes came home. He was supposed 
to have bought a farm in New Jersey. Under proper management, 



THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 49 

that estate could be seized and sold, for the benefit of the parties 
he had defrauded. I was sent off to America for this purpose. 

" I landed at Boston. I went on to New York. I found that 
he had lately changed New York paper-money for New Jersey 
paper-money, and had banked cash in New Brunswick. To take 
this Doctor Dundey, it was necessary to entrap him into the State 
of New York, which required a deal of artifice and trouble. At 
one time, he couldn't be drawn into an appointment. At another 
time, he appointed to come to meet me, and a New York officer, 
on a pretext I made ; and then his children had the measles. At 
last he came, per steam-boat, and I took him, and lodged him in a 
New York prison called the Tombs ; which I dare say you know, 
sir?" 

Editorial acknowledgment to that effect. 

" I went to the Tombs, on the morning after his capture, to at- 
tend the examination before the magistrate. I was passing through 
the magistrate's private room, when, happening to look round me 
to take notice of the place, as we generally have a habit of doing, 
I clapped my eyes, in one corner, on a — Carpet Bag. 

" What did I see upon that Carpet Bag, if you'll believe me, but 
a green parrot on a stand, as large as life. 

" ' That Carpet Bag, with the representation of a green parrot 
on a stand,' said I, 'belongs to an English Jew, named Aaron 
Mesheck, and to no other man, alive or dead ! ' 

" I give you my word the New York Police Officers were doubled 
up with surprise. 

" ' How did you ever come to know that 1 ' said they. 

" ' I think I ought to know that green parrot by this time,' said 
I ; ' for I have had as pretty a dance after that bird, at home, as 
ever I had, in all my life ! ' " 

" And was it Mesheck's 1 " we submissively inquired. 

" Was it, sir ? Of course it was ! He was in custody for an- 
other offence, in that very identical Tombs, at that very identical 
time. And, more than that ! Some memoranda, relating to the 
fraud for which I had vainly endeavoured to take him, were found 
to be, at that moment, lying in that very same individual — 
Carpet Bag!" 

Such are the curious coincidences and such is the peculiar ability, 
always sharpening and being improved by practice, and always 
adapting itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing 
itself to every new device that perverted ingenuity can invent, for 
which this important social branch of the public service is remark- 



50 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

able ! For ever on the watch, with their wits stretched to the 
utmost, these officers have, from day to day and year to year, to 
set themselves against every novelty of trickery and dexterity that 
the combined imaginations of all the lawless rascals in England 
can devise, and to keep pace with every such invention that comes 
out. In the Courts of Justice, the materials of thousands of such 
stories as we have narrated — often elevated into the marvellous 
and romantic, by the circumstances of the case — are dryly com- 
pressed into the set phrase, " in consequence of information I re- 
ceived, I did so and so." Suspicion was to be directed, by careful 
inference and deduction, upon the right person ; the right person 
was to be taken, wherever he had gone, or whatever he was doing 
to avoid detection : he is taken ; there he is at the bar ; that is 
enough. From information I, the officer, received, I did it ; and, 
according to the custom in these cases, I say no more. 

These games of chess, played with live pieces, are played before 
small audiences, and are chronicled nowhere. The interest of the 
game supports the player. Its results are enough for Justice. To 
compare great things with small, suppose Leverrier or Adams 
informing the public that from information he had received he had 
discovered a new planet ; or Columbus informing the public of 
his day that from information he had received he had discovered 
a new continent ; so the Detectives inform it that they have dis- 
covered a new fraud or an old offender, and the process is unknown. 

Thus, at midnight, closed the proceedings of our. curious and 
interesting party. But one other circumstance finally wound up 
the evening, after our Detective guests had left us. One of the 
sharpest among them, and the officer best acquainted with the 
Swell Mob, had his pocket picked, going home ! 



Household Words, Vol 1, No. 25, Sept. 14, 1850. 
THEEE "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES. 

I. THE PAIR OF GLOVES. 

"It's a singler story, sir," said Inspector Wield, of the Detec- 
tive Police, who, in company with Sergeants Dornton and Mith, 
paid us another twilight visit, one July evening; "and I've been 
thinking you might like to know it. 

" It's concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grim- 
wood, some years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was com- 



THE PAIR OF GLOVES. 51 

monly called The Countess, because of her handsome appearance 
and her proud way of carrying of herself; and when I saw the 
poor Countess (I had known her well to speak to), lying dead, 
with her throat cut, on the floor of her bedroom, you'll believe 
me that a variety of reflections calculated to make a man rather 
low in his spirits, came into my head, 

" That's neither here nor there. I went to the house the morn- 
ing after the murder, and examined the body, and made a general 
observation of the bedroom where it was. Turning down the 
pillow of the bed with my hand, I found, underneath it, a pair of 
gloves. A pair of gentleman's dress gloves, very dirty ; and inside 
the lining, the letters Tr, and a cross. 

" Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed 'em to the 
magistrate, over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He 
says, 'Wield,' he says, 'there's no doubt this is a discovery that 
may lead to something very important ; and what you have got to 
do. Wield, is, to find out the owner of these gloves.' 

" I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it imme- 
diately. I looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my 
opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur 
and rosin about 'em, you know, which cleaned gloves usually have, 
more or less. I took 'em over to a friend of mine at Kennington, 
who was in that line, and I put it to him. 'What do you say 
now ? Have these gloves been cleaned 1 ' ' These gloves have 
been cleaned,' says he. ' Have you any idea who cleaned them ? ' 
says I. ' Not at all,' says he ; ' I've a very distinct idea who didn't 
clean 'em, and that's myself But I'll tell you what, Wield, there 
ain't above eight or nine reg'lar glove cleaners in London,' — there 
were not, at that time, it seems — ' and I think I can give you 
their addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did 
clean 'em.' Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went 
here, and I went there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up 
that man ; but, though they all agreed that the gloves had been 
cleaned, I couldn't find the man, woman, or child, that had cleaned 
that aforesaid pair of gloves. 

"What with this person not being at home, and that person 
being expected home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry 
took me three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over 
Waterloo Bridge from the Surrey side of the river, quite beat, and 
very much vexed and disappointed, I thought I'd have a shilling's 
worth of entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself 
up. So I went into the Pit, at half-price, and I sat myself down 
next to a very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing I was a 
stranger (which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he told 



62 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conver- 
sation. When the play was over, we came out together, and I 
said, 'We've been very companionable and agreeable, and perhaps 
you wouldn't object to a drain?' 'Well, you're very good,' says 
he ; 'I shouldn't object to a drain.' Accordingly, we went to a 
public;house, near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room 
up stairs on the first floor, and called for a pint of half-and-half, 
apiece, and a pipe. 

" Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-and- 
half, and sat a talking, very sociably, when the young man says, 
'You must excuse me stopping very long,' he says, 'because I'm 
forced to go home in good time. I must be at work all night.' 
'At work all night?' says I. 'You ain't a baker?' 'No,' he 
says, laughing, 'I ain't a baker.' 'I thought not,' says I, 'you 
haven't the looks of a baker.' ' No,' says he, ' I'm a glove-cleaner.' 

" I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard 
them words come out of his lips. ' You're a glove-cleaner, are you ? ' 
says I. 'Yes,' he says, 'I am.' 'Then, jDerhaps,' says I, taking 
the gloves out of my pocket, ' you can tell me who cleaned this 
pair of gloves ? It's a rum story,' I says. ' I was dining over at 
Lambeth, the other day, at a free-and-easy — quite promiscuous — 
with a public company — when some gentleman, he left these 
gloves behind him ! Another gentleman and me, you see, we laid 
a wager of a sovereign, that I wouldn't find out who they belonged 
to. I've spent as much as seven shillings already, in trying to 
discover ; but, if you could help me, I'd stand another seven and 
welcome. You see there's Tr and a cross, inside.' ' / see,' he says. 
' Bless you, / know these gloves very well ! I've seen dozens of 
pairs belonging to the same party.' 'No?' says I. 'Yes,' says 
he. 'Then you know who cleaned 'em?' says I. 'Rather so,' 
says he. ' My father cleaned 'em.' 

" ' Where does your father live?' says I. 'Just round the cor- 
ner,' says the young man, ' near Exeter Street, here. He'll tell you 
who they belong to, directly.' ' Would you come round with me 
now?' says I. 'Certainly,' says he, 'but you needn't tell my 
father that you found me at the play, you know, because he 
mightn't like it.' 'All right ! ' We went round to the place, and 
there we found an old man in a white apron, with two or three 
daughters, all rubbing and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a 
front parlour. ' Oh, Father ! ' says the young man, ' here's a per- 
son been and made a bet about the ownership of a pair of gloves, 
and I've told him you can settle it.' 'Good evening, sir,' says I 
to the old gentleman. 'Here's the gloves your son speaks of. 
Letters Tn, you see, and a cross.' 'Oh yes,' he says, 'I know 



THE PAIR OF GLOVES. 53 

these gloves very well ; I've cleaned dozens of pairs of 'em. They 
belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great upholsterer in Cheapside.' 'Did 
you get 'em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,' says I, 'if you'll excuse my 
asking the question T 'No,' says he; 'Mr. Trinkle always sends 
'em to Mr. Phibbs's, the haberdasher's, opposite his shop, and the 
haberdasher sends 'em to me.' 'Perhaps you wouldn't object to a 
drain % ' says I. ' Not in the least ! ' says he. So I took the old 
gentleman out, and had a little more talk with him and his son, 
over a glass, and we parted ex-cellent friends. 

" This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Mon- 
day morning, I went to the haberdasher's shop, opposite Mr. 
Trinkle's, the great upholsterer's in Cheapside. 'Mr. Phibbs in 
the way?' 'My name is Phibbs.' 'Oh! I believe you sent this 
pair of gloves to be cleaned ? ' ' Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle 
over the way. There he is in the shop ! ' ' Oh ! that's him in 
the shop, is it % Him in the green coat % ' ' The same individual.' 
' Well, Mr. Phibbs, this is an unpleasant affair ; but the fact is, I 
am Inspector Wield of the Detective Police, and I found these 
gloves under the pillow of the young woman that was murdered 
the other day, over in the Waterloo Road.' 'Good Heaven!' 
says he. ' He's a most respectable young man, and if his father 
was to hear of it, it would be the ruin of him ! ' 'I'm very sorry 
for it,' says I, 'but I must take him into custody.' 'Good 
Heaven ! ' says Mr. Phibbs, again ; ' can nothing be done ? ' 
'Nothing,' says I. 'Will you allow me to call him over here,' 
says he, ' that his father may not see it done V 'I don't object to 
that,' says I; 'but unfortunately, Mr. Phibbs, I can't allow of 
any communication between you. If any was attempted, I should 
have to interfere directly. Perhaps you'll beckon him over here % ' 
Mr. Phibbs went to the door and beckoned, and the young fellow 
came across the street directly ; a smart, brisk young fellow. 

"'Good morning, sir,' says I. 'Good morning, sir,' says he. 
'Would you allow me to inquire, sir,' says I, 'if you ever had any 
acquaintance with a party of the name of Grimwood ? ' ' Grim- 
wood ! Grimwood ! ' says he, ' No ! ' ' You know the Waterloo 
Road ? ' ' Oh ! of course I know the Waterloo Road ! ' ' Happen 
to have heard of a young woman being murdered there % ' ' Yes, 
I read it in the paper, and very sorry I was to read it.' ' Here's 
a pair of gloves belonging to you, that I found under her pillow 
the morning afterwards ! ' 

" He was in a dreadful state, sir ; a dreadful state ! ' Mr. 
Wield,' he says, 'upon my solemn oath I never was there. I 
never so much as saw her, to my knowledge, in my life ! ' 'I am 
very sorry,' says I. 'To tell you the truth, I don't think you 



54 REPRINTED PIECES. 

are the murderer, but I must take you to Union Hall in a cab. 
However, I think it's a case of that sort, that, at present, at all 
events, the magistrate will hear it in private.' 

" A private examination took place, and then it came out that 
this young man was acquainted with a cousin of the unfortunate 
Eliza Grimwood, and that, calling to see this cousin a day or two 
before the murder, he left these gloves upon the table. Who 
should come in, shortly afterwards, but Eliza Grimwood ! ' Whose 
gloves are these 1 ' she says, taking 'em up. ' Those are Mr. Trinkle's 
gloves,' says her cousin. ' Oh ! ' says she, 'they are very dirty, and 
of no use to him, I am sure. I shall take 'em away for my girl to 
clean the stoves with.' And she put 'em in her pocket. The girl had 
used 'em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left 'em lying 
on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere ; and 
her mistress, looking round to see that the room was tidy, had 
caught 'em up and put 'em under the pillow where I found 'em. 

" That's the story, sir." 



II. — THE ARTFUL TOUCH. 

" One of the most beautiful things that ever was done, perhaps," 
said Inspector Wield, emphasising the adjective, as preparing us 
to expect dexterity or ingenuity rather than strong interest, " was 
a move of Sergeant Witch em's. It was a lovely idea ! 

" Witchem and me were down at Epsom one Derby Day, wait- 
ing at the station for the Swell Mob. As I mentioned, when we 
were talking about these things before, we are ready at the station 
when there's races, or an Agricultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn 
in for an university, or Jenny Lind, or anything of that sort ; and 
as the Swell Mob come down, we send 'em back again by the next 
train. But some of the Swell Mob, on the occasion of this Derby 
that I refer to, so far kidded us as to hire a horse and shay ; start 
away from London by Whitechapel, and miles round ; come into 
Epsom from the opposite direction ; and go to work, right and left, 
on the course, while we were waiting for 'em at the Rail. That, 
however, ain't the point of what I'm goiug to tell you. 

"While Witchem and me were waiting at the station, there 
comes up one Mr. Tatt ; a gentleman formerly in the public line, 
quite an amateur Detective in his way, and very much respected. 
'Halloa, Charley Wield,' he says. 'What are you doiDg here? 
On the look-out for some of your old friends?' 'Yes, the old 
move, Mr. Tatt.' 'Come along,' he says, 'you and Witchem, and 
have a glass of sherry.' 'We can't stir from the place,' says I, 



THE ARTFUL TOUCH. 55 

* till the next train comes in ; but after that, we will with pleasure.' 
Mr. Tatt waits, and the train comes in, and then Witchem and me 
go off Avith him to the Hotel. Mr. Tatt he's got up quite regard- 
less of expense, for the occasion ; and in his shirt-front there's a 
beautiful diamond prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound — a very- 
handsome pin indeed. We drink our sherry at the bar, and have 
had our three or four glasses, when Witchem cries suddenly, ' Look 
out, Mr. Wield ! stand fast ! ' and a dash is made into the place by 
the Swell Mob — four of 'em — that have come down as I tell you, 
and in a moment Mr. Tatt's prop is gone ! Witchem, he cuts 'em 
off at the door, I lay about me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows 
fight like a good 'un, and there we are, all down together, heads 
and heels, knocking about on the floor of the bar — perhaps you 
never see such a scene of confusion ! However, we stick to our 
men (Mr. Tatt being as good as any officer), and we take 'em all, 
and carry 'em off to the station. The station's full of people, who 
have been took on the course ; and it's a precious piece of work to 
get 'em secured. However, we do it at last, and we search 'em ; 
but nothing's found upon 'em, and they're locked up ; and a pretty 
state of heat we are in by that time, I assure you ! 

" I was very blank over it, myself, to think that the prop had 
been passed away ; and I said to Witchem, when we had set 'em 
to rights, and were cooling ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, 'we 
don't take much by this move, anyway, for nothing's found upon 
'em, and it's only the braggadocia,^ after all.' 'What do you 
mean, Mr. Wield ? ' says Witchem. ' Here's the diamond pin ! ' 
and in the palm of his hand there it was, safe and sound ! ' Why, 
in the name of wonder,' says me and Mr. Tatt, in astonishment, 
' how did you come by that ? ' ' I'll tell you how I come by it,' 
says he. ' I saw which of 'em took it ; and when we were all 
down on the floor together, knocking about, I just gave him a 
little touch on the back of his hand, as I knew his pal would ; 
and he thought it was his pal ; and gave it me ! ' It was beau- 
tiful, beau-ti-ful ! 

" Even that was hardly the best of the case, for that chap was 
tried at the Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You know what Quar- 
ter Sessions are, sir. Well, if you'll believe me, while them slow 
justices were looking over the Acts of Parliament, to see what 
they could do to him, I'm blowed if he didn't cut out of the dock 
before their faces ! He cut out of the dock, sir, then and there ; 
swam across a river ; and got up into a tree to dry himself. In 
the tree he was took — an old woman having seen him climb up 
— and Witchem's artful touch transported him ! " 

1 Three months' imprisonment as reputed thieves. 



56 REPRINTED PIECES. 



III. THE SOFA. 

" What young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselves and 
break their friends' hearts," said Sergeant Dornton, "it's surpris- 
ing ! I had a case at St. Blank's Hospital which was of this sort. 
A bad case, indeed, with a bad end !" 

" The Secretary, and the House-Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of 
St. Blank's Hospital, came to Scotland Yard to give information 
of numerous robberies having been committed on the students. 
The students could leave nothing in the pockets of their great- 
coats, while the great-coats were hanging at the hospital, but it 
was almost certain to be stolen. Property of various descriptions 
was constantly being lost ; and the gentlemen were naturally un- 
easy about it, and anxious, for the credit of the institution, that 
the thief or thieves should be discovered. The case was entrusted 
to me, and I went to the hospital. 

'"Now, gentlemen,' said I, after we had talked it over; 'I 
understand this property is usually lost from one room.' 
"Yes, they said. It was. 

" 'I should wish, if you please,' said I, 'to see the room.' 
" It was a good-sized bare room down-stairs, with a few tables 
and forms in it, and a row of pegs, all round, for hats and coats. 
■ " 'Next, gentlemen,' said I, 'do you suspect anybody?' 
" Yes, they said. They did suspect somebody. They were sorry 
to say, they suspected one of the porters. 

'"I should like,' said I, 'to have that man pointed out to me, 
and to have a little time to look after him.' 

" He was pointed out, and I looked after him, and then I went 
back to the hospital, and said, ' Now, gentlemen, it's not the porter. 
He's, unfortunately for himself, a little too fond of drink, but he's 
nothing worse. My suspicion is, that these robberies are com- 
mitted by one of the students ; and if you'll put me a sofa into 
that room where the pegs are — as there's no closet — I think I 
shall be able to detect the thief. I wish the sofa, if you please, to 
be covered with chintz, or something of that sort, so that I may 
lie on my chest, underneath it, without being seen.' 

" The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o'clock, before 
any of the students 'i^ame, I went there, with those gentlemen, to 
get underneath it. It turned out to be one of those old-fashioned 
sofas with a great cross-beam at the bottom, that would have broken 
my back in no time if I could ever have got below it. We had 
quite a job to break all this away in the time ; however, I fell to 
work, and they fell to work, and we broke it out, and made a clear 




detective" story — "the sofa.' 



58 REPRINTED PIECES. 

place for me. I got under the sofa, lay down on my chest, took 
out my knife, and made a convenient hole in the chintz to look 
through. It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that 
when the students were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen 
should come in, and hang up a great-coat on one of the pegs. And 
that that great-coat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocket- 
book containing marked money. 

" After I had been there some time, the students began to drop 
into the room, by ones, and twos, and threes, and to talk about all 
sorts of things, little thinking there was anybody under the sofa— 
and then to go up-stairs. At last there came in one who remained 
until he was alone in the room by himself A tallish, good-looking 
young man of one or two and twenty, with a light whisker. He 
went to a particular hat-peg, took off a good hat that was hanging 
there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its place, and hung that hat 
on another peg, nearly opposite to me. I then felt quite certain 
that he was the thief, and would come back by-and-bye. 

" When they were all up-stairs, the gentleman came in with the 
great-coat. I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have 
a good view of it ; and he went away ; and I lay under the sofa 
on my chest, for a couple of hours or so, waiting. 

"At last, the same young man came down. He walked across 
the room, whistling — stopped and listened — took another walk and 
whistled — stopped again, and listened — then began to go regu- 
larly round the pegs, feeling in the pockets of all the coats. When 
he came to the great-coat, and felt the pocket-book, he was so eager 
and so hurried that he broke the strap in tearing it open. As he 
began to put the money in his pocket, I crawled out from under 
the sofa, and his eyes met mine. 

*' My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale 
at that time, my health not being good ; and looked as long as a 
horse's. Besides which, there was a great draught of air from the 
door, underneath the sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my 
head ; so what I looked like, altogether, I don't know. He turned 
blue — literally blue — when he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't 
feel surprised at it. 

" 'I am an officer of the Detective Police,' said I, 'and have 
been lying here, since you first came in this morning. I regret, for 
the sake of yourself and your friends, that you should have done 
what you have ; but this case is complete. You have the pocket- 
book in your hand and the money upon you ; and I must take you 
into custody ! ' 

" It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on 
his trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means I don't 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 59 

know ; but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself 
in Newgate." 

"VVe inquired of this officer, on the conclusion of the foregoing 
anecdote, whether the time appeared long, or short, when he lay in 
that constrained position under the sofa ? 

" Why, you see, sir," he replied, "if he hadn't come in, the first 
time, and I had not been quite sure he was the thief, and would 
return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being 
dead certain of my man, the time seemed pretty short." 



Household Words, Vol. 1, No. 22, August 24, 1850. 
^FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. — III. 

I SUPPOSE you thought I was dead ? No such thing. Don't 
flatter yourselves that I haven't got my eye upon you. I am wide 
awake, and you give me plenty to look at. 

I have begun my great work about you. I have been collecting 
materials from the Horse, to begin with. You are glad to hear it, 
ain't you ? Very likely. Oh, he gives you a nice character ! He 
makes you out a charming set of fellows. 

He informs me, by the bye, that he is a distant relation of the 
pony that was taken up in a balloon a few weeks ago ; and that 
the pony's account of your going to see him at Vauxhall Gardens, 
is an amazing thing. The pony says, that when he looked round 
on the assembled crowd, come to see the realisation of the wood- 
cut in the bill, he found it impossible to discover which was the 
real Mister Green — -there were so many Mister Greens — and 
they were all so very green. 

But, that's the way with you. You know it is. Don't tell me ! 
You'd go to see anything that other people went to see. And 
don't flatter yourselves that I am referring to " the vulgar curi- 
osity " as you choose to call it, when you mean some curiosity in 
which you don't participate yourselves. The polite curiosity in 
this country, is as vulgar as any curiosity in the world. 

Of course you'll tell me, no it isn't, but I say yes it is. What 
have you got to say for yourselves about the Nepaulese Princes, I 
should like to know ? Why, there has been more crowding, and 
pressing, and pushing, and jostling, and struggling, and striving, 
in genteel houses this last season, on account of those Nepaulese 
Princes, than would take place in vulgar Cremorne Gardens, and 



60 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Greenwich Park, at Easter time and Whitsuntide ! And what 
for? Do you know anything about 'em? Have you any idea 
why they came here ? Can you put your finger on their country 
in the map? Have you ever asked yourselves a dozen common 
questions about its climate, natural history, government, produc- 
tions, customs, religion, manners ? Not you ! Here are a couple 
of swarthy Princes very much out of their element, walking about 
in wide muslin trousers and sprinkled all over with gems (like the 
clock-work figure on the old round platform in the street, grown 
up) and they're fashionable outlandish monsters, and it's a new 
excitement for you to get a stare at 'em. As to asking 'em to 
dinner, and seeing 'em sit at table without eating in your company 
(unclean animals as you are !) you fall into raptures at that. Quite 
delicious, isn't it ? Ugh, you dunder-headed boobies ! 

I wonder what there is, new and strange, that you wouldnH 
lionise, as you call it. Can you suggest anything? It's not a 
hippopotamus, I suppose. I hear from my brother-in-law in the 
Zoological Gardens that you are always pelting away into the 
Regent's Park, by thousands, to see the hippopotami, ain't you? 
You study one attentively when you do see one, don't you ? You 
come away so much wiser than you went, reflecting so profoundly 
on the wonders of creation — eh ? 

Bah ! You follow one another like wild geese, but you are not 
so good to eat ! 

These, however, are not the observations of my friend the Horse. 
He takes you in another point of view. Would you like to read his 
contribution to my Natural History of you ? No ? You shall then. 

He is a Cab-horse now. He wasn't always, but he is now, and 
his usual stand is close to our Proprietor's usual stand. That's 
the way we have come into communication, we " dumb animals." 
Ha, ha ! Dumb, too ! Oh, the conceit of you men, because you can 
bother the community out of their five wits, by making speeches ! 

Well. I mentioned to this Horse that I should be glad to have 
his opinions and experiences of you. Here they are : 

" At the request of my honourable friend the Raven, I proceed 
to offer a few remarks in reference to the animal called Man. I 
have had varied experience of this strange creature for fifteen 
years, and am now driven by a Man, in the hackney cabriolet, 
number twelve thousand four hundred and fifty-two. 

" The sense Man entertains of his own inferiority to the nobler 
animals — and I am now more particularly referring to the Horse 
— has impressed me forcibly, in the course of my career. If a 
Man knows a Horse well, he is prouder of it than of any knowl- 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 61 

edge of himself, within the range of his limited capacity. He 
regards it as the sum of all human acquisition. If he is learned 
in a Horse, he has nothing else to learn. And the same remark 
applies, with some little abatement, to his acquaintance with Dogs. 
I have seen a good deal of Man in my time, but I think I have 
never met a Man who didn't feel it necessary to his reputation to 
pretend, on occasion, that he knew something of Horses and Dogs, 
though he really knew nothing. As to making us a subject of 
conversation, my opinion is that we are more talked about, than 
history, philosophy, literature, art and science, all put together. 
I have encountered innumerable gentlemen in the country, who 
were totally incapable of interest in anything but Horses and Dogs 
— except Cattle. And I have always been given to understand 
that they were the flower of the civilised world. 

" It is very doubtful to me, whether there is upon the whole, 
anything Man is so ambitious to imitate, as an ostler, a jockey, a 
stage coachman, a horse-dealer, or a dog-fancier. There may be 
some other character which I do not immediately remember, that 
fires him with emulation ; but if there be, I am sure it is con- 
nected with Horses, or Dogs, or both. This is an unconscious 
compliment, on the part of the tyrant, to the nobler animals, 
which I consider to be very remarkable. I have known Lords, 
and Baronets, and Members of Parliament, out of number, who 
have deserted every other calling, to become but indiflerent stable- 
men or kennelmen, and be cheated on all hands, by the real 
aristocracy of those pursuits who were regularly born to the 
business. 

" All this, I say, is a tribute to our superiority which I consider 
to be very remarkable. Yet, still, I can't quite understand it. 
Man can hardly devote himself to us, in admiration of our virtues, 
because he never imitates them. We Horses are as honest, though 
I say it, as animals can be. If, under the pressure of circumstances, 
we submit to act at a Circus, for instance, we always show that 
we are acting. We never deceive anybody. We would scorn to do 
it. If we are called upon to do anything in earnest, we do our 
best. If we are required to run a race falsely, and to lose when 
we could win, we are not to be relied upon, to commit a fraud ; 
Man must come in at that point, and force us to it. And the ex- 
traordinary circumstance to me, is that Man (whom I take to be a 
powerful species of Monkey) is always making us nobler animals 
the instruments of his meanness and cupidity. The very name of 
our kind has become a byword for all sorts of trickery and cheat- 
ing. We are as innocent as counters at a game — and yet this 
creature will play falsely with us ! 



62 REPRINTED PIECES. 

" Man's opinion, good or bad, is not worth much, as any rational 
Horse knows. But justice is justice ; and what I complain of, is 
that Mankind talks of us as if We had something to do with all 
this. They say that such a man was ' ruined by Horses.' Ruined 
by Horses ! They can't be open even in that, and say he was 
ruined by Men ; but they lay it at our stable-door ! As if we 
ever ruined anybody, or were ever doing anything but being ruined 
ourselves, in our generous desire to fulfil the useful purposes of 
our existence ! 

" In the same way, we get a bad name as if we were profligate 
company. ' So and so got among Horses, and it was all up with 
him.' Why, we would have reclaimed him — we would have made 
him temperate, industrious, punctual, steady, sensible — what harm 
would he ever have got from us, I should wish to ask % 

"Upon the whole, speaking of him as I have found him, I 
should describe Man as an unmeaning and conceited creature, very 
seldom to be trusted, and not likely to make advances towards the 
honesty of the nobler animals. I should say that his power of 
warping the nobler animals to bad purposes, and damaging their 
reputation by his companionship, is, next to the art of growing 
oats, hay, carrots, and clover, one of his principal attributes. He 
is very unintelligible in his caprices ; seldom expressing with dis- 
tinctness what he wants of us ; and relying greatly on our better 
judgment to find out. He is cruel, and fond of blood — particu- 
larly at a steeple-chase — and is very ungrateful. 

"And yet, so far as I can understand, he worships us too. He 
sets up images of us (not particularly like, but meant to be) in the 
streets, and calls upon his fellows to admire them, and believe in 
them. As well as I can make out, it is not of the least importance 
what images of Men are put astride upon these images of Horses, 
for I don't find any famous personage among them — except one, 
and his image seems to have been contracted for, by the gross. 
The jockeys who ride our statues are very queer jockeys, it ap- 
pears to me, but it is something to find Man even posthumously 
sensible of what he owes to us. I believe that when he has done 
any great wrong to any very distinguished Horse, deceased, he gets 
up a subscription to have an awkward likeness of him made, and 
erects it in a public place, to be generally venerated. I can find 
no other reason for the statues of us that abound. 

"It must be regarded as a part of the inconsistency of Man, 
that he erects no statues to the Donkeys — who, though far in- 
ferior animals to ourselves, have great claims upon him. I should 
think a Donkey opposite the Horse at Hyde Park, another in 
Trafalgar Square, and a group of Donkeys, in brass, outside the 



FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY. 63 

Guildhall of the City of London (for I believe the Common Council 
Chamber is inside that building) would be pleasant and appropriate 
memorials. 

"I am not aware that I can suggest anything more, to my 
honourable friend the Raven, which will not already have occurred 
to his fine intellect. Like myself, he is the victim of brute force, 
and must bear it until the present state of things is changed — as 
it possibly may be in the good time which I understand is coming 
if I wait a little longer." 

There ! How do you like that ? That's the Horse ! You shall 
have another animal's sentiments soon. I have communicated with 
plenty of 'em, and they are all down upon you. It's not I alone 
who have found you out. You are generally detected, I am happy 
to say, and shall be covered with confusion. 

Talking about the horse, are you going to set up any more horses ? 
Eh ? Think a bit. Come ! You haven't got horses enough yet, 
surely ? Couldn't you put somebody else on horseback, and stick 
him up, at the cost of a few thousands ? You have already stat- 
ues to most of the "benefactors of mankind" (see advertise- 
ment) in your principal cities. You walk through groves of great 
inventors, instructors, discoverers, assuagers of pain, preventers of 
disease, suggesters of purifying thoughts, doers of noble deeds. 
Finish the list. Come ! 

Whom will you hoist into the saddle ? Let's have a cardinal 
virtue! Shall it be Faith? Hope? Charity? Aye, Charity's 
the virtue to ride on horseback ! Let's have Charity ! 

How shall we represent it, eh ? What do you think ? Royal ? 
Certainly. Duke ? Of course. Charity always was typified in 
that way, from the time of a certain widow, downwards. And 
there's nothing less left to put up ; all the commoners who were 
"benefactors of mankind" having had their statues in the public 
places, long ago. 

How shall we dress it ? Rags ? Low. Drapery ? Common- 
place. Field Marshal's uniform ? The very thing ! Charity in 
a Field Marshal's uniform (none the worse for wear) with thirty 
thousand pounds a year, public money, in its pocket, and fifteen 
thousand more, public money, up behind, will be a piece of plain 
uncompromising truth in the highways and an honour to the country 
and the time. 

Ha, ha, ha ! You can't leave the memory of an unassuming, 
honest, good-natured, amiable old Duko alone, without bespattering 
it with your flunkeyism, can't you ? That's right — and like you ! 
Here are three brass buttons in my crop. I'll subscribe 'em all. 



64 REPRINTED PIECES. 

One, to the statue of Charity; one, to a statue of Hope; one, to 
a statue of Faith. For Faith we'll have the Nepaulese Ambassa- 
dor on horseback — being a prince. And for Hope, we'll put the 
Hippopotamus on horseback, and so make a group. 
Let's have a meeting about it ! 



Household Words, Vol 2, JSTo. 30, Oct. 19, 1850. 
A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 

I AM not used to writing for print. What working-man, that 
never labours less (some Mondays, and Christmas Time and Easter 
Time excepted) than twelve or fourteen hours a day, is 1 But I 
have been asked to put down, plain, what I have got to say ; and 
so I take pen-and-ink, and do it to the best of my power, hoping 
defects will find excuse. 

I was born, nigh London, but have worked in a shop at Bir- 
mingham (what you would call Manufactories, we call Shops), 
almost ever since I was out of my time. I served my apprentice- 
ship at Deptford, nigh where I was born, and I am a smith by 
trade. My name is John. I have been called " Old John " ever 
since I was nineteen year of age, on account of not having much 
hair. I am fifty-six year of age at the present time, and I don't 
find myself with more hair, nor yet with less, to signify, than at 
nineteen year of age aforesaid. 

I have been married five and thirty year, come next April. I 
was married on All Fools' Day. Let them laugh that win. I won 
a good wife that day, and it was as sensible a day to me as ever I 
had. 

We have had a matter of ten children, six whereof are living. 
My eldest son is engineer in the Italian steam-packet " Mezzo 
Giorno, plying between Marseilles and Naples, and calling at 
Genoa, Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia." He was a good workman. 
He invented a many useful little things that brought him in — 
nothing. I have two sons doing well at Sydney, New South Wales 
— single, when last heard from. One oif my sous (James) went 
wild and for a soldier, where he was shot in India, living six weeks 
in hospital with a musket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade, which 
he wrote with his own hand. He was the best looking. One of 
my two daughters (Mary) is comfortable in her circumstances, but 
water on the chest. The other (Charlotte), her husband run away 
from her in the basest manner, and she and her three children live 
with us. The youngest, six year old, has a turn for mechanics. 



A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 65 

I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don't mean to say but 
what I see a good many public points to complain of, still I don't 
think that's the way to set them right. If I did. think so, I should 
be a Chartist. But I don't think so, and I am not a Chartist. 
I read the paper, and hear discussion, at what we call " a parlour," 
in Birmingham, and I know many good men and workmen who 
are Chartists. Note. Not Physical force. 

It won't be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I 
can't put down what I have got to say, without putting that down 
before going any further), that I have always been of an ingenious 
turn. I once got twenty pound by a screw, and it's in use now. 
I have been twenty year, off and on, completing an Invention and 
perfecting it. I perfected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten o'clock 
at night. Me and my wife stood and let some tears fall over the 
Model, when it was done and I brought her in to take a look at it. 

A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist. 
Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is very animated. I have 
often heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of 
us working-men, is, that too many places have been made, in the 
course of time, to provide for people that never ought to have been 
provided for ; and that we have to obey forms and to pay fees to 
support those places when we shouldn't ought. " True " (delivers 
William Butcher), " all the public has to do this, but it falls heav- 
iest on the working-man, because he has least to spare ; and like- 
wise because impediments shouldn't be put in his way, when he 
wants redress of wrong or furtherance of right." Note. I have 
wrote down those words from William Butcher's own mouth. W. B. 
delivering them fresh for the aforesaid purpose. 

Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, on Christ- 
mas Eve, gone nigh a year, at ten o'clock at night. All the money 
I could spare I had laid out upon the Model ; and when times was 
bad, or my daughter Charlotte's children sickly, or both, it had 
stood still, months at a spell. I had pulled it to pieces, and made 
it over again with improvements, I don't know how often. There 
it stood, at last, a perfected Model as aforesaid. 

William Butcher and me had a long talk, Christmas Day, respect- 
ing of the Model. William is very sensible. But sometimes cranky. 
William said, " What will you do with it, John ? " I said, " Patent 
it." William said, " How patent it, John?" I said, ''By taking 
out a Patent." William then delivered that the law of Patent 
was a cruel wrong. William said, " John, if you make your inven- 
tion public, before you get a Patent, any one may rob you of the 
fruits of your hard work. You are put in a cleft stick, John. 
Either you must drive ^ bargain very much against yourself, by 



66 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

getting a party to come forward beforehand with the great expenses 
of the Patent ; or, you must be put about, from post to pillar, 
among so many parties, trying to make a better bargain for your- 
self, and showing your invention, that your invention will be took 
from you over your head." I said, "William Butcher, are you 
cranky 1 You are sometimes cranky." William said, " No, John, 
I tell you the truth ; " which he then delivered more at length. I 
said to W. B. I would Patent the invention myself. 

My wife's brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wife 
unfortunately took to drinking, made away with everything, and 
seventeen times committed to Birmingham Jail before happy re- 
lease in every point of view), left my wife, his sister, when he died, 
a legacy of one hundred and twenty-eight pound ten, Bank of Eng- 
land Stocks. Me and my wife never broke into that money yet. 
Note. We might come to be old and past our work. We now 
agreed to Patent the invention. We said we would make a hole in 
it — I mean in the aforesaid money — and Patent the invention. 
William Butcher wrote me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J, 
is a carpenter, six foot four in height, and plays quoits well. He 
lives in Chelsea, London, by the church. I got leave from the 
shop, to be took on again when I come back. I am a good work- 
man. Not a Teetotaller ; but never drunk. When the Christmas 
holidays were over, I went up to London by the Parliamentary 
Train, and hired a lodging for a week with Thomas Joy. He is 
married. He has one son gone to sea. 

Thomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step 
to be took, in Patenting the invention, was to prepare a petition 
unto Queen Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and 
drawn it up. Note. William is a ready writer. A declaration 
before a Master in Chancery was to be added to it. That, we 
likewise drew up. After a deal of trouble I found out a Master, 
in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, nigh Temple Bar, 
where I made the declaration, and paid eighteen-pence. I was 
told to take the declaration and petition to the Home Office, in 
Whitehall, where I left it to be signed by the Home Secretary 
(after I had found the office out), and where I paid two pound, 
two, and sixpence. In six days he signed it, and I was told to 
take it to the Attomey-G-eneral's chambers, and leave it there for 
a report. I did so, and paid four pound, four. Note. Nobody 
all through, ever thankful for their money, but all uncivil. 

My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now hired for another week, 
whereof five days were gone. The Attorney-General made what 
they called a Report-of-course (my invention being, as William 
Butcher had delivered before starting, unopposed), and I was sent 




A POOR man's tale OF A PATENT. 



68 REPRINTED PIECES. 

back with it to the Home Office. They made a Copy of it, which 
was called a Warrant. For this warrant, I paid seven pound, 
thirteen, and six. It was sent to the Queen, to sign. The Queen 
sent it back, signed. The Home Secretary signed it again. The 
gentleman thro wed it at me when I called, and said, " Now take 
it to the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn." I was then in my third 
week at Thomas Joy's living very sparing, on account of fees. I 
found myself losing heart. 

At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn, they made " a draft of the 
Queen's bill," of my invention, and a " docket of the bill." I paid 
five pound, ten, and six, for this. They " engrossed two copies of 
the bill ; one for the Signet Office, and one for the Privy-Seal 
Office." I paid one pound, seven, and six, for this. Stamp-duty 
over and above, three pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the same 
office engrossed the Queen's bill for signature. I paid him one 
pound, one. Stamp-duty, again, one pound, ten. I was next to 
take the Queen's bill to the Attorney-General again, and get it 
signed again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched it 
away, and took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the 
Queen again. She signed it again. I paid seven pound, thirteen, 
and six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomas Joy's. 
I was quite wore out, patience and pocket. 

Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to William Butcher. 
William Butcher delivered it again to three Birmingham Parlours, 
from which it got to all the other Parlours, and was took, as I have 
been told since, right through all the shops in the North of Eng- 
land. Note. William Butcher delivered, at his Parlour, in a speech, 
that it was a Patent way of making Chartists. 

But I hadn't nigh done yet. The Queen's bill was to be took to 
the Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand — where the stamp 
shop is. The Clerk of the Signet made " a Signet bill for the Lord 
Keeper of the Privy Seal." I paid him four pound, seven. The 
Clerk of the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal made "a Privy-Seal 
bill for the Lord Chancellor." I paid him, four pound, two. The 
Privy-Seal bill was handed over to the Clerk of the Patents, who 
engrossed the aforesaid. I paid him, five pound, seventeen, and 
eight ; at the same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the Patent, in one 
lump, thirty pound. I next paid for "boxes for the Patent," nine 
and sixpence. Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at 
a profit for eighteen-pence. I next paid "fees to the Deputy, the 
Lord Chancellor's Purse-bearer," two pound, two. I next paid 
"fees to the Clerk of the Hanaper," seven pound, thirteen. I next 
paid "fees to the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper," ten shillings. I 
next paid, to the Lord Chancellor again, one pound, eleven, and 



A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 69 

six. Last of all, I paid " fees to the Deputy Sealer, and Deputy- 
Chaff- wax," ten shillings and sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas 
Joy's over six weeks, and the unopposed Patent for my invention, 
for England only, had cost me ninety-six pound, seven, and eight- 
pence. If I had taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would 
have cost me more than three hundred pound. 

Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when I was 
young. So much the worse for me you'll say. I say the same. 
William Butcher is twenty year younger than me. He knows a 
hundred year more. If William Butcher had wanted to Patent an 
invention, he might have been sharper than myself when hustled 
backwards and forwards among all those offices, though I doubt if 
so patient. Note. William being sometimes cranky, and consider 
porters, messengers, and clerks. 

Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was 
Patenting my invention. But I put this : Is it reasonable to make 
a man feel as if, in inventing an ingenious improvement meant 
to do good, he had done something wrong ? How else can a man 
feel, when he is met by such difficulties at every turn ? All invent- 
ors taking out a Patent must feel so. And look at the expense. 
How hard on me, and how hard on the country if there's any merit 
in me (and my invention is took up now, I am thankful to say, and 
doing well), to put me to all that expense before I can move a 
finger ! Make the addition yourself, and it'll come to ninety-six 
pound, seven, and eightpence. No more, and no less. 

What can I say against William Butcher, about places ? Look 
at the Home Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Patent Office, the 
Engrossing Clerk, the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk 
of the Patents, the Lord Chancellor's Purse-bearer, the Clerk of 
the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, 
and the Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in England could get a Patent 
for an Indian-rubber band, or an iron-hoop, without feeing all of 
them. Some of them, over and over again. I went through thirty- 
five stages. I began with the Queen upon the Throne. I ended 
with the Deputy Chaff- wax. Note. I should like to see the Dep- 
uty Chaff- wax. Is it a man, or what is it ? 

What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I 
hope it's plain. Not so much in the handwriting (though nothing 
to boast of there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with 
Thomas Joy. Thomas said to me, when we parted, "John, if the 
laws of this country were as honest as they ought to be, you would 
have come to London — registered an exact description and drawing 
of your invention — paid half-a-crown or so for doing of it — and 
therein and thereby have got your Patent." 



70 REPRINTED PIECES. 

My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William 
Butcher's delivering " that the whole gang of Hanapers and Chaff- 
waxes must be done away with, and that England has been chaffed 
and waxed sufficient," I agree. 



HouseJioId Words, Vol. 2, No. 39, Dec. 21, 1850. 
A CHRISTMAS TREE. 

I HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of 
children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas 
Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, 
and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by 
a multitude of little tapers ; and everywhere sparkled and glittered 
with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind 
the green leaves ; and there were real watches (with movable hands, 
at least, and an endless capacity of being wound up) dangling from 
innumerable twigs ; there were French-polished tables, chairs, bed- 
steads, wardrobes, eight-day clocks, and various other articles of 
domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton), 
perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy house- 
keeping ; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agree- 
able in appearance than many real men — and no wonder, for their 
heads took off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums ; there 
were fiddles and drums ; there were tambourines, books, work- 
boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes, peep-show boxes, and all kinds 
of boxes ; there were trinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than 
any grown-up gold and jewels; there were baskets and pincushions 
in all devices ; there were guns, swords, and banners ; there were 
witches standing in enchanted rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes ; 
there were teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-wipers, smell- 
ing-bottles, conversation-cards, bouquet-holders ; real fruit, made 
artificially dazzling with goldleaf; imitation apples, pears, and 
walnuts, crammed with surprises ; in short, as a pretty child, before 
me, delightedly whispered to another pretty child, her bosom friend, 
" There was everything, and more." This motley collection of 
odd objects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing 
back the bright looks directed towards it from every side — some 
of the diamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the 
table, and a few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms 
of pretty mothers, aunts, and nurses — made a lively realisation of 
the fancies of childhood ; and set me thinking how all the trees that 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 71 

grow and all the things that come into existence on the earth, have 
their wild adornments at that well-remembered time. 

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the 
house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which 
I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, 
what do we all remember best upon the branches of tlie Christmas 
Tree of our own young Christmas days, by which we climbed to 
real life. 

Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of 
its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy 
tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top — 
for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to 
grow downward towards the earth — I look into my youngest 
Christmas recollections ! 

All toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and 
red berries, is the Tumbler with his hands in his pockets, who 
wouldn't lie down, but whenever he was put upon the floor, per- 
sisted in rolling his fat body about, until he rolled himself still, and 
brought those lobster eyes of his to bear upon me — when I aff'ected 
to laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts was extremely doubt- 
ful of him. Close beside him is that infernal snuS'-box, out of 
which there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black gown, with 
an obnoxious head of hair, and a red cloth mouth, wide open, who 
was not to be endured on any terms, but could not be put away 
either ; for he used suddenly, in a highly magnified state, to fly out 
of Mammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is 
the frog with cobbler's wax on his tail, far oft* ; for there was no 
knowing where he wouldn't jump ; and when he flew over the 
candle, and came upon one's hand with that spotted back — red on 
a green ground — he was horrible. The cardboard lady in a blue- 
silk skirt, who was stood up against the candlestick to dance, 
and whom I see on the same branch, was milder, and was beautiful ; 
but I can't say as much for the larger cardboard man, who used to 
be hung against the wall and pulled by a string ; there was a sinis- 
ter expression in that nose of his; and when he got his legs round 
his neck (which he very often did), he was ghastly, and not a creat- 
ure to be alone w^ith. 

When did that dreadful Mask first look at me ? Who put it on, 
and why was I so frightened that the sight of it is an era in my 
life? It is not a hideous visage in itself; it is even meant to be 
droll ; why then were its stolid features so intolerable ? Surely not 
because it hid the wearer's face. An apron would have done 
as much ; and though I should have preferred even the apron 
away, it would not have been absolutely insupportable, like the 



72 REPRINTED PIECES. 

mask. Was it the immovability of the mask 1 The doll's face was 
immovable, but I was not afraid of her. Perhaps that fixed and 
set change coming over a real face, infused into my quickened heart 
some remote suggestion and dread of the universal change that is 
to come on every face, and make it still ? Nothing reconciled me 
to it. No drummers, from whom proceeded a melancholy chirping 
on the turning of a handle ; no regiment of soldiers, with a mute 
band, taken out of a box, and fitted, one by one, upon a stiff" and 
lazy little set of lazy-tongs ; no old woman, made of wires and a 
brown-paper composition, cutting up a pie for two small children ; 
could give me a permanent comfort, for a long time. Nor was it 
any satisfaction to be shown the Mask, and see that it was made of 
paper, or to have it locked up and be assured that no one wore it. 
The mere recollection of that fixed face, the mere knowledge of its 
existence anywhere, was sufficient to awake me in the night all 
perspiration and horror, with, "01 know it's coming ! the 
mask ! " 

I never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers — 
there he is ! was made of, then ! His hide was real to the touch, 
I recollect. And the great black horse with the round red spots 
all over him — the horse that I could even get upon — I never 
wondered what had brought him to that strange condition, or 
thought that such a horse was not commonly seen at Newmarket. 
The four horses of no colour, next to him, that went into the waggon 
of cheeses, and could be taken out and stabled under the piano, 
appear to have bits of fur-tippet for their tails, and other bits for 
their manes, and to stand on pegs instead of legs ; but it was not so 
when they were brought home for a Christmas present. They were 
all right, then ; neither was their harness unceremoniously nailed 
into their chests, as appears to be the case now. The tinkling 
works of the music-cart, I did find out, to be made of quill tooth- 
picks and wire ; and I always thought that little tumbler in his 
shirt sleeves, perpetually swarming up one side of a wooden frame, 
and coming down, head foremost, on the other, rather a weak- 
minded person — though good-natured ; but the Jacob's Ladder, 
next him, made of little squares of red wood, that went flapping 
and clattering over one another, each developing a different picture, 
and the whole enlivened by small bells, was a mighty marvel and 
a great delight. 

Ah ! The Doll's house ! — of which I was not proprietor, but 
where I visited. I don't admire the Houses of Parliament half so 
much as that stone-fronted mansion with real glass windows, and 
door-steps, and a real balcony — greener than I ever see now, except 
at watering-places ; and even they afford but a poor imitation. And 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 73 

though it did open all at once, the entire house-front (which was a 
blow, I admit, as cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it was but to 
shut it up again, and I could believe. Even open, there were three 
distinct rooms in it : a sitting-room and bedroom, elegantly fur- 
nished, and best of all, a kitchen, with uncommonly soft fire-irons, 
a plentiful assortment of diminutive utensils — - oh, the warming- 
pan ! — and a tin man-cook in profile, who was always going to fry 
two fish. What Barmecide justice have I done to the noble feasts 
wherein the set of wooden platters figured, each with its own pecul- 
iar delicacy, as a ham or turkey, glued tight on to it, and garnished 
with something green, which I recollect as moss ! Could all the 
Temperance Societies of these later days, united, give me such a 
tea-drinking as I have had through the means of yonder little set of 
blue crockery, which really would hold liquid (it ran out of the small 
wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted of matches), and which made 
tea, nectar. And if the two legs of the ineffectual little sugar-tongs 
did tumble over one another, and want purpose, like Punch's hands, 
what does it matter ? And if I did once shriek out, as a poisoned 
child, and strike the fashionable company with consternation, by 
reason of having drunk a little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved in 
too hot tea, I was never the worse for it, except by a powder ! 

Upon the next branches of the tree, lower down, hard by the 
green roller and miniature gardening-tools, how thick the books 
begin to hang. Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of 
them, and with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. 
What fat black letters to begin with! "A was an archer, and 
shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and 
there he is ! He was a good many things in his time, was A, 
and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versa- 
tility, that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe — 
like Y, who was always confined to a Yacht or a Yew Tree ; and Z 
condemned for ever to be a Zebra or a Zany, But, now, the very 
tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk — the marvellous 
bean-stalk up which Jack climbed to the Giant's house ! And now, 
those dreadfully interesting, double-headed giants, with their clubs 
over their shoulders, begin to stride along the boughs in a perfect 
throng, dragging knights and ladies home for dinner by the hair of 
their heads. And Jack — how noble, with his sword of sharpness, 
and his shoes of swiftness ! Again those old meditations come upon 
me as I gaze up at him ; and I debate within myself whether there 
was more than one Jack (which I am loth to believe possible), or 
only one genuine original admirable Jack, who achieved all the 
recorded exploits. 

Good for Christmas time is the ruddy colour of the cloak, in 



74 REPRINTED PIECES. 

which — the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through, 
with her basket — Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christ- 
mas Eve to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that 
dissembling Wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any 
impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that 
ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that 
if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood, I should have 
known perfect bliss. But, it was not to be ; and there was nothing 
for it but to look out the Wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put 
him late in the procession on the table, as a monster who was to 
be degraded. the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found 
seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the animals were 
crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken 
down before they could be got in, even there — and then, ten to 
one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but 
imperfectly fastened with a wire latch — but what was that against 
it ! Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant : 
the lady-bird, the butterfly — all triumphs of art ! Consider the 
goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indiff'er- 
ent, that he usually tumbled forward, and knocked down all the 
animal creation. Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco- 
stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers ; and 
how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve them- 
selves into frayed bits of string ! 

Hush ! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree — not Robin 
Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf (I have passed him 
and all Mother Bunch's wonders, without mention), but an Eastern 
King with a glittering scimitar and turban. By Allah ! two East- 
ern Kings, for I see another, looking over his shoulder ! Down 
upon the grass, at the tree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-black 
Giant, stretched asleep, with his head in a lady's lap; and near 
them is a glass box, fastened with four locks of shining steel, in 
which he keeps the lady prisoner when he is awake. I see the 
four keys at his girdle now. The lady makes signs to the two 
kings in the tree, who softly descend. It is the setting-in of the 
bright Arabian Nights. 

Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to 
me. All lamps are wonderful ; all rings are talismans. Common 
flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the 
top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in ; beef-steaks are to throw 
down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may 
stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence 
the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. Tarts are made, ac- 
cording to the recipe of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turned 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 75 

pastrycook after he was set down in his drawers at the gate of 
Damascus ; cobblers are all Mustaphas, and in the habit of sewing 
up people cut into four pieces, to whom they are taken blindfold. 

Any iron ring let into stone is the entrance to a cave which only 
waits for the magician, and the little fire, and the necromancy, that 
will make the earth shake. All the dates imported come from the 
same tree as that unlucky date, with whose shell the merchant 
knocked out the eye of the genie's invisible son. All olives are of 
the stock of that fresh fruit, concerning which the Commander of 
the Faithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the 
fraudulent olive merchant ; all apples are akin to the apple pur- 
chased (with two others) from the Sultan's gardener for three 
sequins, and which the tall black slave stole from the child. All 
dogs are associated with the dog, really a transformed man, who 
jumped upon the baker's counter, and put his paw on the piece of 
bad money. All rice recalls the rice which the awful lady, who 
was a ghoul, could only peck by grains, because of her nightly 
feasts in the burial-place. My very rocking-horse, — there he is, 
with his nostrils turned completely inside-out, indicative of Blood ! 

— should have a peg in his neck, by virtue thereof to fly away 
with me, as the wooden horse did with the Prince of Persia, in the 
sight of all his father's Court. 

Yes, on every object that I recognise among those upper branches 
of my Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light ! When I wake in bed, 
at daybreak, on the cold dark w^inter mornings, the white snow dimly 
beheld, outside, through the frost on the window-pane, I hear Dinar- 
zade. " Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray you finish the 
history of the Young King of the Black Islands." Scheherazade 
replies, " If my lord the Sultan will suffer me to live another day, 
sister, I will not only finish that, but tell you a more wonderful 
story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no orders 
for the execution, and we all three breathe again. 

At this height of my tree I begin to see, cowering among the 
leaves — it may be born of turkey, or of pudding, or mince-pie, or 
of these many fancies, jumbled with Robinson Crusoe on his desert 
island, Philip Quarll among the monkeys, Sandford and Merton 
with Mr. Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the Mask — or it may be 
the result of indigestion, assisted by imagination and over-doctoring 

— a prodigious nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that I 
don't know why it's frightful — but I know it is. I can only 
make out that it is an immense array of shapeless things, which 
appear to be planted on a vast exaggeration of the lazy-tongs that 
used to bear the toy soldiers, and to be slowly coming close to my 
eyes, and receding to an immeasurable distance. When it comes 



76 REPRINTED PIECES. 

closest, it is worst. In connection with it I descry remembrances 
of winter nights incredibly long ; of being sent early to bed, as a 
punishment for some small offence, and waking in two hours, with 
a sensation of having been asleep two nights ; of the laden hopeless- 
ness of morning ever dawning ; and the oppression of a weight of 
remorse. 

And now, I see a wonderful row of little lights rise smoothly 
out of the ground, before a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings 
— a magic bell, which still sounds in my ears unlike all other 
bells — and music plays, amidst a buzz of voices, and a fragrant 
smell of orange-peel and oil. Anon, the magic bell commands the 
music to cease, and the great green curtain rolls itself up majesti- 
cally, and The Play begins ! The devoted dog of Montargis 
avenges the death of his master, foully murdered in the Forest of 
Bondy ; and a humorous Peasant with a red nose and a very little 
hat, whom I take from this hour forth to my bosom as a friend (I 
think he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a village Inn, but many 
years have passed since he and I have met), remarks that the sass- 
igassity of that dog is indeed surprising ; and evermore this jocu- 
lar conceit will live in my remembrance fresh and unfading, overtop- 
ping all possible jokes, unto the end of time. Or now, I learn 
with bitter tears how poor Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and 
with her brown hair hanging down, went starving through the 
streets ; or how George Barnwell killed the worthiest uncle that 
ever man had, and was afterwards so sorry for it that he ought to 
have been let off. Comes swift to comfort me, the Pantomime — 
stupendous Phenomenon ! — when clowns are shot from loaded mor- 
tars into the great chandelier, bright constellation that it is ; when 
Harlequins, covered all over with scales of pure gold, twist and 
sparkle, like amazing fish ; when Pantaloon (whom I deem it no 
irreverence to compare in my own mind to my grandfather) puts 
red-hot pokers in his pocket, and cries " Here's somebody coming ! " 
or taxes the Clown with petty larceny, by saying, " Now, I sawed 
you do it ! " when Everything is capable, with the greatest ease, of 
being changed into Anything; and "Nothing is, but thinking 
makes it so." Now, too, I perceive my first experience of the 
dreary sensation — often to return in after-life — of being unable, 
next day, to get back to the dull, settled world ; of wanting to 
live for ever in the bright atmosphere I have quitted ; of doting on 
the little Fairy, with the wand like a celestial Barber's Pole, and 
pining for a Fairy immortality along with her. Ah, she comes 
back, in many shapes, as my eye wanders down the branches of 
my Christmas Tree, and goes as often, and has never yet stayed 
by me! 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 77 

Out of this delight springs the toy-theatre, — there it is, with its 
familiar proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in the boxes ! — and all 
its attendant occupation with paste and glue, and gum, and water 
colours, in the getting-up of The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth, 
or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of a few besetting accidents and 
failures (particularly an unreasonable disposition in the respectable 
Kelmar, and some others, to become faint in the legs, and double 
up, at exciting points of the drama), a teeming world of fancies so 
suggestive and all-embracing, that, far below it on my Christmas 
Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in the day-time, adorned with 
these associations as with the freshest garlands of the rarest flowers, 
and charming me yet. 

But hark ! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish 
sleep ! What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I 
see them set forth on the Christmas Tree ? Known before all the 
others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my 
little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field ; 
some travellers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a 
manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men ; a 
solemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by 
the hand ; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, 
on his bier, to life ; a crowd of people looking through the opened 
roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on 
a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water to 
a ship ; again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude ; again, 
with a child upon his knee, and other children round ; again, restor- 
ing sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, 
health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant ; 
again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick dark- 
ness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice 
heard, " Forgive them, for they know not what they do." 

Still, on the lower and maturer branches of the Tree, Christmas 
associations cluster thick. School-books shut up ; Ovid and Virgil 
silenced; the Rule of Three, with its cool impertinent inquiries, 
long disposed of ; Terence and Plautus acted no more, in an arena 
of huddled desks and forms, all chipped, and notched, and inked; 
cricket-bats, stumps, and balls, left higher up, with the smell of 
trodden grass and the softened noise of shouts in the evening air ; 
the tree is still fresh, still gay. If I no more come home at Christ- 
mas time, there will be boys and girls (thank Heaven !) while the 
World lasts ; and they do ! Yonder they dance and play upon the 
branches of my Tree, God bless them, merrily, and my heart dances 
and plays too ! 

And I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. 



78 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

Wg all come home, or ought to come home, for a short holiday — 
the longer, the better — from the great boarding-school, where we 
are for ever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a 
rest. As to going a visiting, where can we not go, if we will ; where 
have we not been, when we would ; starting our fancy from our 
Christmas Tree ! 

Away into the winter prospect. There are many such upon the 
tree ! On, by low-lying, misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up 
long hills, winding dark as caverns between thick plantations, 
almost shutting out the sparkling stars ; so, out on broad heights, 
until we stop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The gate- 
bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the frosty air ; the gate swings 
open on its hinges; and, as we drive up to a great house, the 
glancing lights grow larger in the windows, and the opposing rows 
of trees seem to fall solemnly back on either side, to give us place. 
At intervals, all day, a frightened hare has shot across this whitened 
turf ; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hard 
frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too. Their watchful 
eyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we could see them, 
like the icy dewdrops on the leaves ; but they are still, and all is 
still. And so, the lights growing larger, and the trees falling back 
before us, and closing up again behind us, as if to forbid retreat, we 
come to the house. 

There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good 
comfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories — 
Ghost Stories, or more shame for us — round the Christmas fire; 
and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it. 
But, no matter for that. We came to the house, and it is an old 
house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs 
upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim 
legends, too) lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. 
We are a middle-aged nobleman, and we make a generous supper 
with our host and hostess and their guests — it being Christmas 
time, and the old house full of company — and then we go to bed. 
Our room is a very old room. It is hung with tapestry. We don't 
like the portrait of a cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There 
are great black beams in the ceiling, and there is a great black 
bedstead, supported at the foot by two great black figures, who 
seem to have come oft' a couple of tombs in the old baronial church 
in the park, for our particular accommodation. But, we are not a 
superstitious nobleman, and we don't mind. Well ! we dismiss our 
servant, lock the door, and sit before the fire in our dressing-gown, 
musing about a great many things. At length we go to bed. 
Well ! we can't sleep. We toss and tumble, and can't sleep. The 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 79 

embers on the hearth burn fitfully and make the room look 
ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the counterpane, at the 
two black figures and the cavalier — that wicked-looking cavalier 
— in green. In the flickering light they seem to advance and 
retire : which, though we are not by any means a superstitious 
nobleman, is not agreeable. Well ! we get nervous — more and 
more nervous. We say " This is very foolish, but we can't stand 
this ; we'll pretend to be ill, and knock up somebody." Well ! we 
are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there 
comes in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who 
glides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there, 
wringing her hands. Then, we notice that her clothes are wet. 
Our tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak ; 
but, we observe her accurately. Her clothes are wet ; her long 
hair is dabbled with moist mud ; she is dressed in the fashion of 
two hundred years ago ; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty 
keys. Well ! there she sits, and we can't even faint, we are in 
such a state about it. Presently she gets up, and tries all the 
locks in the room with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of 
them; then, she fixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in 
green, and says, in a low, terrible voice, " The stags know it ! " 
After that, she wrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and 
goes out at the door. We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize our 
pistols (we always travel with pistols), and are following, when we 
find the door locked. We turn the key, look out into the dark 
gallery; no one there. V/e wander away, and try to find our 
servant. Can't be done. We pace the galleiy till daybreak ; then 
return to our deserted room, fall asleep, and are awakened by our 
servant (nothing ever haunts him) and the shining sun. Well ! 
we make a wretched breakfast, and all the company say we look 
queer. After breakfast, w^e go over the house with our host, and 
then we take him to the portrait of the cavalier in green, and then 
it all comes out. He was false to a young housekeeper once 
attached to that family, and famous for her beauty, who drowned 
herself in a pond, and whose body was discovered, after a long 
time, because the stags refused to drink of the water. Since 
which, it has been whispered that she traverses the house at 
midnight (but goes especially to that room where the cavalier 
in green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks with the rusty 
keys. Well ! we tell our host of what we have seen, and a shade 
comes over his features, and he begs it may be hushed up ; and so 
it is. But, it's all true ; and we said so, before we died (we are 
dead now) to many responsible people. 

There is no end to the old liouses, with resounding galleries, and 



80 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

dismal state-bedchambers, and haunted wings shut up for many- 
years, through which we may ramble, with an agreeable creeping up 
our back, and encounter any number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of 
remark perhaps) reducible to a very few general types and classes ; 
for, ghosts have little originality, and " walk " in a beaten track. 
Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in a certain old hall, 
where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot him- 
self, has certain planks in the floor from which the blood ivill not 
be taken out. You may scrape and scrape, as the present owner 
has done, or plane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and scrub, 
as his grandfather did, or burn and burn with strong acids, as his 
great-gi-andfather did, but, there the blood will still be — no redder 
and no paler — no more and no less — always just the same. Thus, 
in such another house there is a haunted door, that never will keep 
open ; or another door that never will keep shut ; or a haunted 
sound of a spinning-wheel, or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or 
a sigh, or a horse's tramp, or the rattling of a chain. Or else, 
there is a turret-clock, which, at the midnight hour, strikes thirteen 
when the head of the family is going to die ; or a shadowy, im- 
movable black carriage which at such a time is always seen by 
somebody, waiting near the great gates in the stable-yard. Or 
thus, it came to pass how Lady Mary went to pay a visit at a 
large wild house in the Scottish Highlands, and, being fatigued 
with her long journey, retired to bed early, and innocently said, next 
morning, at the breakfast-table, " How odd, to have so late a party 
last night, in this remote place, and not to tell me of it, before I 
went to bed ! " Then, every one asked Lady Mary what she meant ? 
Then, Lady Mary replied, " Why, all night long, the carriages were 
driving round and round the terrace, underneath my window ! " 
Then, the owner of the house turned pale, and so did his Lady, and 
Charles Macdoodle of Macdoodle signed to Lady Mary to say no 
more, and every one was silent. After breakfast, Charles Macdoodle 
told Lady Mary that it was a tradition in the family that those 
rumbling carriages on the terrace betokened death. And so it 
proved, for, two months afterwards, the Lady of the mansion died. 
And Lady Mary, who was a Maid of Honour at Court, often told 
this story to the old Queen Charlotte ; by this token that the old 
King always said, " Eh, eh 1 What, what ? Ghosts, ghosts ? No 
such thing, no such thing ! " And never left off saying so, until he 
went to bed. 

Or, a friend of somebody's whom most of us know, when he was 
a young man at college, had a particular friend, with whom he 
made the compact that, if it were possible for the Spirit to return 
to this earth after its separation from the body, he of the twain 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 81 

who first died, should reappear to the other. In course of time, 
this compact was forgotten by our friend ; the two young men 
having progressed in life, and taken diverging paths that were 
wide asunder. But, one night, many years afterwards, our friend 
being in the North of England, and staying for the night in an 
inn, on the Yorkshire Moors, happened to look out of bed; and 
there, in the moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the window, 
stedfastly regarding him, saw his old college friend ! The appear- 
ance being solemnly addressed, replied, in a kind of whisper, but 
very audibly, " Do not come near me. I am dead. • I am here to 
redeem my promise. I come from another world, but may not 
disclose its secrets ! " Then, the whole form becoming paler, melted, 
as it were, into the moonlight, and faded away. 

Or, there was the daughter of the first occupier of the pictu- 
resque EHzabethan house, so famous in our neighbourhood. You 
have heard about her? No! Why, She went out one summer 
evening at twilight, when she was a beautiful girl, just seventeen 
years of age, to gather flowers in the garden ; and presently came 
running, terrified, into the hall to her father, saying, "Oh, dear 
father, I have met myself ! " He took her in his arms, and told 
her it was fancy, but she said, " Oh no ! I met myself in the broad 
walk, and I was pale and gathering withered flowers, and I turned 
my head, and held them up ! " And, that night, she died ; and a 
picture of her story was begun, though never finished, and they say 
it is somewhere in the house to this day, with its face to the wall. 

Or, the uncle of my brother's wife was riding home on horseback, 
one mellow evening at sunset, when, in a green lane close to his 
own house, he saw a man standing before him, in the very centre 
of the narrow way. "Why does that man in the cloak stand 
there!" he thought. "Does he want me to ride over him?" 
But the figure never moved. He felt a strange sensation at seeing 
it so still, but slackened his trot and rode forward. When he was 
so close to it, as almost to touch it with his stirrup, his horse shied, 
and the figure glided up the bank, in a curious, unearthly manner 
— backward, and without seeming to use its feet — and was gone. 
The uncle of my brother's wife, exclaiming, "Good Heaven ! It's 
my cousin Harry, from Bombay ! " put spurs to his horse, which 
was suddenly in a profuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange 
behaviour, dashed round to the front of his house. There, he saw 
the same figure, just passing in at the long French window of the 
drawing-room, opening on the ground. He threw his bridle to a 
servant, and hastened in after it. His sister was sitting there, 
alone. " Alice, where's my cousin Harry ? " " Your cousin Harry, 
John ? " " Yes. From Bombay. I met him in the lane just now, 



82 REPRINTED PIECES. 

and saw him enter here, this instant." Not a creature had been 
seen by any one ; and in that hour and minute, as it afterwards 
appeared, this cousin died in India. 

Or, it was a certain sensible old maiden lady, who died at ninety- 
nine, and retained her faculties to the last, who really did see the 
Orphan Boy ; a story which has often been incorrectly told, but, 
of which the real truth is this — because it is, in fact, a story 
belonging to our family — and she was a connection of our family. 
When she was about forty years of age, and still an uncommonly 
fine woman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she 
never married, though she had many offers), she went to stay at a 
place in Kent, which her brother, an Indian-Merchant, had newly 
bought. There was a story that this place had once been held in 
trust, by the guardian of a young boy ; who was himself the next 
heir, and who killed the young boy by harsh and cruel treatment. 
She knew nothing of that. It has been said that there was a 
Cage in her bedroom in which the guardian used to put the boy. 
There was no such thing. There was only a closet. She went to 
bed, made no alarm whatever in the night, and in the morning said 
composedly to her maid when she came in, " Who is the pretty 
forlorn-looking child who has been peeping out of that closet all 
night ? " The maid replied by giving a loud scream, and instantly 
decamping. She was surprised ; but she was a woman of remark- 
able strength of mind, and she dressed herself and went down- 
stairs, and closeted herself with her brother. " Now, Walter," 
she said, "I have been disturbed all night by a pretty, forlorn- 
looking boy, who has been constantly peeping out of that closet in 
my room, which I can't open. This is some trick." " I am afraid 
not, Charlotte," said he, " for it is the legend of the house. It is 
the Orphan Boy. What did he do ? " "He opened the door 
softly," said she, " and peeped out. Sometimes, he came a step 
or two into the room. Then, I called to him, to encourage him, 
and he shrunk, and shuddered, and crept in again, and shut the 
door." "The closet has no communication, Charlotte," said her 
brother, "with any other part of the house, and it's nailed up." 
This was undeniably true, and it took two carpenters a whole fore- 
noon to get it open, for examination. Then, she was satisfied that 
she had seen the Orphan Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of 
the story is, that he was also seen by three of her brother's sons, 
in succession, who all died young. On the occasion of each child 
being taken ill, he came home in a heat, twelve hours before, and 
said. Oh, Mamma, he had been playing under a particular oak-tree, 
in a certain meadow, with a strange boy — a pretty, forlorn-looking 
boy, who was very timid, and made signs ! From fatal experience, 



A CHRISTMAS TREE. 83 

the parents came to know that this was the Orphan Boy, and that 
the course of that child whom he chose for his little playmate was 
surely run. 

Legion is the name of the German castles, where we sit up 
alone to wait for the Spectre — where we are shown into a room, 
made comparatively cheerful for our reception — where we glance 
round at the shadows, thrown on the blank walls by the crackling 
fire — where we feel very lonely when the village innkeeper and 
his pretty daughter have retired, after laying down a fresh store of 
wood upon the hearth, and setting forth on the small table such 
supper-cheer as a cold roast capon, bread, grapes, and a flask of 
old Rhine wine — where the reverberating doors close on their 
retreat, one after another, like so many peals of sullen thunder — 
aiid where, about the small hours of the night, we come into the 
knowledge of divers supernatural mysteries. Legion is the name 
of the haunted German students, in whose society we draw yet 
nearer to the fire, while the schoolboy in the corner opens his eyes 
wide and round, and flies off" the footstool he has chosen for his 
seat, when the door accidentally blows open. Vast is the crop of 
such fruit, shining on our Christmas Tree ; in blossom, almost at 
the very top ; ripening all down the boughs ! 

Among the later toys and fancies hanging there — as idle often 
and less pure — be the images once associated with the sweet old 
Waits, the softened music in the night, ever unalterable ! Encircled 
by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant 
figure of my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheerful image 
and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that 
rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World ! 
A moment's pause, vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs 
are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more ! I know there 
are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved, 
have shone and smiled ; from which they are departed. But, far 
above, I see the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's Son ; and 
God is good ! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of 
thy downward growth, may I, with a grey head, turn a child's 
heart to that figure yet, and a child's trustfulness and confidence ! 

Now, the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and 
dance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and 
welcome be they ever held, beneath the branches of the Christmas 
Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow ! But, as it sinks into the 
ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. " This, in 
commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy, and 
compassion. This, in remembrance of Me ! " 



84 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 2, No. 48, Feb. 22, 1851. 
"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." 

My name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is 
mine and Mrs. Meek's. When I saw the announcement in the 
Times, I dropped the paper. I had put it in, myself, and paid for 
it, but it looked so noble that it overpowered me. 

As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to 
Mrs. Meek's bedside. "Maria Jane," said I (I allude to Mrs. 
Meek), "you are now a public character." We read the review of 
our child, several times, with feelings of the strongest emotion ; 
and I sent the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office 
for fifteen copies. No reduction was made on taking that quantity. 

It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been 
expected. In fact, it had been expected, with comparative confi- 
dence, for some months. Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with 
us — • of the name of Bigby — had made every preparation for its 
admission to our circle. 

I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I 
know I am a quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice 
was never loud, and, in point of stature, I have been from infancy, 
small. I have the greatest respect for Maria Jane's Mama. She 
is a most remarkable woman. I honour Maria Jane's Mama. In 
my opinion she would storm a town, single-handed, with a hearth- 
broom, and carry it. I have never known her to yield any point 
whatever, to mortal man. She is calculated to terrify the stoutest 
heart. 

Still — but I will not anticipate. 

The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, 
on the part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one afternoon, several 
months ago. I came home earlier than usual from the office, and, 
proceeding into the dining-room, found an obstruction behind the 
door, which prevented it from opening freely. It was an obstruc- 
tion of a soft nature. On looking in, I found it to be a female. 

The female in question stood in the corner behind the door, con- 
suming Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of that beverage per- 
vading the apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second 
glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was 
copious in figure. The expression of her countenance was severe 
and discontented. The words to which she gave utterance on see- 
ing me, were these, "Oh git along with you, Sir, if you please; me 
and Mrs. Bigby don't want no male parties here ! " 



"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." 85 

That female was Mrs. Prodgit. 

I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I 
made no remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of 
spirits after dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to in- 
trude, I cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama said to me on her 
retiring for the night : in a low distinct voice, and with a look of 
reproach that completely subdued me : " George Meek, Mrs. Prod- 
git is your wife's nurse ! " 

I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I, writ- 
ing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate ani- 
mosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane ? 
I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and not 
Mrs. Prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female 
brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling. 

We were happy after her first appearance ; we were sometimes 
exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and 
" Mrs. Prodgit ! " announced (and she was very often announced), 
misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that 
I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs. Prod- 
git's presence. Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit, 
there was a dreadful, secret, understanding — a dark mystery and 
conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I appeared 
to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit 
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room — where the 
temperature is very low, indeed, in the wintry time of the year — 
and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me, and at 
my rack of boots ; a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in 
my opinion, an exhilarating object. The length of the councils 
that were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these circumstances, I 
will not attempt to describe. I will merely remark, that Mrs. 
Prodgit always consumed Sherry Wine while the deliberations were 
in progress ; that they always ended in Maria Jane's being in 
wretched spirits on the sofa ; and that Maria Jane's Mama always 
received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph 
that too plainly said, ^^ Now, George Meek ! You see my child, 
Maria Jane, a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied ! " 

I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the 
day when Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, 
and the ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unob- 
trusive home in a cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, 
and a bundle, a bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. 
I have no objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. 
Bigby, who I never can forget is the parent of Maria Jane) tak- 
ing entire possession of my unassuming establishment. In the 



86 REPRINTED PIECES. 

recesses of my own breast, the thought may linger that a man in 
possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman 
Mrs, Prodgit ; bat, I ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, 
and do. Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings ; but, I can 
bear them without complaint. They may tell in the long run ; I 
may be hustled about, from post to pillar, beyond my strength ; 
nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving rise to words in the family. 

The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus 
George, my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few 
plaintive household words. I am not at all angry ; I am mild — 
but miserable. 

I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was ex- 
pected in our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little 
stranger were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immedi- 
ately on his arrival, instead of a holy babe ? I wish to know why 
haste was made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in 
every direction ? I wish to be informed why light and air are ex- 
cluded from Augustus George, like poisons 1 Why, I ask, is my 
unoffending infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity 
and calico, with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only 
hear him snuffle (and no w^onder ! ) deep down under the pink hood 
of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of 
his lineaments as his nose. 

Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the 
brushes of All Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George ? Am 
I to be told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to 
have rashes brought out upon it, by the premature and incessant 
use of those formidable little instruments 1 

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges 
of sharp frills ? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yield- 
ing surface is to be crimped and small plaited 1 Or is my child 
composed of Paper or of Linen, that impressions of the finer getting- 
up art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off, all over 
his soft arms and legs, as I constantly observe them 1 The starch 
enters his soul ; who can wonder that he cries ? 

Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a 
Torso ? I presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the 
usual practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and 
tied up? Am I to be told that there is any analogy between 
Augustus George Meek and Jack Sheppard 1 

Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be 
agreed upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to 
that natural provision which it is at once the pride and duty of 
Maria Jane, to administer to Augustus George ! Yet, I charge 



"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." 87 

Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with systemati- 
cally forcing Castor Oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of 
his birth. When that medicine, in its efficient action, causes inter- 
nal disturbance to Augustus George, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided 
and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsistently ad- 
ministering opium to allay the storm she has raised ! What is the 
meaning of this ? 

If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prod- 
git require, for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen 
that would carpet my humble roof ? Do I wonder that she requires 
it ? No ! This morning, within an hour, I beheld this agonising 
sight. I beheld my son — Augustus George — in Mrs. Prodgit's 
hands, and on Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the 
moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of nature ; having 
nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportion- 
ate to the length of his usual outer garments. Trailing from Mrs. 
Prodgit's lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage — ■ 
I should say of several yards in extent. In this, I saw Mrs. Prod- 
git tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him 
over and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now 
the back of his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, 
and the bandage secured by a pin, which I have every reason to 
believe entered the body of my only child. In this tourniquet, he 
passes the present phase of his existence. Can I know it, and 
smile ! 

I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but 
I feel deeply. Not for myself ; for Augustus George. I dare not 
interfere. Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? 
Any parent ? Any body ? I do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit 
(aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's 
affections from me, and interposes an impassable barrier between us. 
I do not complain of being made of no account. I do not want to 
be of any account. But, Augustus George is a production of Nat- 
ure (I cannot think otherwise), and I claim that he should be 
treated with some remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, 
Mrs. Prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a superstition. 
Are all the faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit ? If not, why don't they 
take her in hand and improve her ? 

P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the 
subject, and says she brought up seven children besides Maria Jane. 
But how do / know that she might not have brought them up 
much better ? Maria Jane herself is far from strong, and is subject 
to headaches, and nervous indigestion. Besides which, I learn from 
the statistical tables that one child in five dies within the first year 



88 REPRINTED PIECES. 

of its life ; and one child in three, within the fifth. That don't 
look as if we could never improve in these particulars, I think ! 
P.P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions. 



Household Words, Vol. 2, No. 50, March 8, 1851. 
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 

It was profoundly observed by a witty member of the Court of 
Common Council, in Council assembled in the City of London, in 
the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty, that 
the French are a frog-eating people, who wear wooden shoes. 

We are credibly informed, in reference to the nation whom this 
choice spirit so happily disposed of, that the caricatures and stage 
representations which were current in England some half a century 
ago, exactly depict their present condition. For example, we un- 
derstand that every Frenchman, without exception, wears a pigtail 
and curl-papers. That he is extremely sallow, thin, long-faced, and . 
lantern-jawed. That the calves of his legs are invariably un- 
developed ; that his legs fail at the knees, and that his shoulders 
are always higher than his ears. We are likewise assured that he 
rarely tastes any food but soup maigre, and an onion; that he 
always says, "By Gar ! Aha ! Vat you tell me, sare?" at the end 
of every sentence he utters ; and that the true generic name of his 
race is the Mounseers, or the Parly-voos, If he be not a dancing- 
master or a barber, he must be a cook ; since no other trades but 
those three are congenial to the tastes of the people, or permitted by 
the Institutions of the country. He is a slave, of course. The ladies 
of France (who are also slaves) invariably have their heads tied up 
in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long earrings, carry tambourines, and 
beguile the weariness of their yoke by singing in head voices through 
their noses — principally to barrel-organs. 

It may be generally summed up, of this inferior people, that they 
have no idea of anything. 

Of a great Institution like Smithfield, they are unable to form 
the least conception. A Beast Market in the heart of Paris would 
be regarded an impossible nuisance. Nor have they any notion of 
slaughter-houses in the midst of a city. One of these benighted 
frog-eaters would scarcely understand your meaning, if you told 
him of the existence of such a British bulwark. 

It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to indulge in a little 
self-complacency when our right to it is thoroughly established. 



A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 89 

At the present time, to be rendered memorable by a final attack on 
that good old market which is the (rotten) apple of the Corpora- 
tion's eye, let us compare ourselves, to our national delight and 
pride as to these two subjects of slaughter-house and beast-market, 
wdth the outlandish foreigner. 

The blessings of Smithfield are too well understood to need re- 
capitulation ; all who run (away from mad bulls and pursuing oxen) 
may read. Any market-day they may be beheld in glorious action. 
Possibly the merits of our slaughter-houses are not yet quite so 
generally appreciated. 

Slaughter-houses, in the large towns of England, are always (with 
the exception of one or two enterprising towns) most numerous in 
the most densely crowded places, where there is the least circulation 
of air. They are often underground, in cellars ; they are sometimes 
in close back yards; sometimes (as in Spitalfields) in the very 
shops where the meat is sold. Occasionally, under good private 
management, they are ventilated and clean. For the most part, 
they are unventilated and dirty ; and, to the reeking walls, putrid 
fat and other offensive animal matter clings with a tenacious hold. 
The busiest slaughter-houses in London are in the neighbourhood 
of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel, in Newport 
Market, in Leadenhall Market, in Clare Market. All these places 
are surrounded by houses of a poor description, swarming with in- 
habitants. Some of them are close to the worst burial-grounds in 
London. When the slaughter-house is below the ground, it is a 
common practice to throw the sheep down areas, neck and crop — 
which is exciting, but not at all cruel. When it is on the level 
surface, it is often extremely difficult of approach. Then, the 
beasts have to be worried, and goaded, and pronged, and tail- 
twisted, for a long time before they can be got in — which is en- 
tirely owing to their natural obstinacy. When it is not difficult of 
approach, but is in a foul condition, what they see and scent makes 
them still more reluctant to enter — which is their natural obsti- 
nacy again. When they do get in at last, after no trouble and 
suffering to speak of (for, there is nothing in the previous journey 
into the heart of London, the night's endurance in Smithfield, the 
struggle out again, among the crowded multitude, the coaches, carts, 
waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, dogs, boys, 
whoopings, roarings, and ten thousand other distractions), they are 
represented to be in a most unfit state to be killed, according to 
microscopic examinations made of their fevered blood by one of the 
most distinguished physiologists in the world. Professor Owen — 
but that's humbug. When they are killed, at last, their reeking 
carcases are hung in impure air, to become, as the same Professor 



90 REPRINTED PIECES. 

will explain to you, less nutritious and more unwholesome — but 
he is only an -wTicommon counsellor, so don't mind him. In half a 
quarter of a mile's length of Whitechapel, at one time, there shall 
be six hundred newly slaughtered oxen hanging up, and seven hun- 
dred sheep — but, the more the merrier — proof of prosperity. 
Hard by Snow Hill and Warwick Lane, you shall see the little 
children, inured to sights of brutality from their birth, trotting 
along the alleys, mingled with troops of horribly busy pigs, up to 
their ankles in blood — but it makes the young rascals hardy. Into 
the imperfect sewers of this overgrown city, you shall have the 
immense mass of corruption, engendered by these practices, lazily 
thrown out of sight, to rise, in poisonous gases, into your house at 
night, when your sleeping children will most readily absorb them, 
and to find its languid way, at last, into the river that you drink 
— but, the French are a frog-eating people who wear wooden shoes, 
and it's the roast beef of England, my boy, the jolly old English 
roast beef. 

It is quite a mistake — a new-fangled notion altogether — to 
suppose that there is any natural antagonism between putrefaction 
and health. They know better than that, in the Common Council. 
You may talk about Nature, in her wisdom, always warning man 
through his sense of smell, when he draws near to something dan- 
gerous ; but, that won't go down in the City. Nature very often 
don't mean anything. Mrs. Quickly says that prunes are ill for a 
green wound ; but whosoever says that putrid animal substances 
are ill for a green wound, or for robust vigour, or for anything or 
for any body, is a humanity-monger and a humbug. Britons never, 
never, never, &c., therefore. And prosperity to cattle-driving, 
cattle-slaughtering, bone-crushing, blood-boiling, trotter-scraping, 
tripe-dressing, paunch-cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-preparing, tallow- 
melting, and other salubrious proceedings, in the midst of hospitals, 
churchyards, workhouses, schools, infirmaries, refuges, dwellings, 
provision-shops, nurseries, sick-beds, every stage and baiting-place 
in the journey from birth to death ! 

These ^Ticommon counsellors, your Professor Owens and fellows, 
will contend that to tolerate these things in a civilised city, is to 
reduce it to a worse condition than Bruce found to prevail in Abys- 
sinia. For there (say they) the jackals and wild dogs came at night 
to devour the offal ; whereas, here there are no such natural scaven- 
gers, and quite as savage customs. Further, they will demonstrate 
that nothing in Nature is intended to be wasted, and that besides 
the waste which such abuses occasion in the articles of health and 
life — main sources of the riches of any community — they lead to 
a prodigious waste of changing matters, which might, with proper 



A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 91 

preparation, and under scientific direction, be safely applied to the 
increase of the fertility of the land. Thus (they argue) does Nature 
ever avenge infractions of her beneficent laws, and so surely as Man 
is determined to warp any of her blessings into curses, shall they 
become curses, and shall he suflFer heavily. But, this is cant. Just 
as it is cant of the worst description to say to the London Corpora- 
tion, " How can you exhibit to the people so plain a spectacle of 
dishonest equivocation, as to claim the right of holding a market in 
the midst of the great city, for one of your vested privileges, when 
you know that when your last market holding charter was granted 
to you by King Charles the First, Smithfield stood in the Suburbs 
OF London, and is in that very charter so described in those five 
words ? " — which is certainly true, but has nothing to do with the 
question. 

Now to the comparison, in these particulars of civilisation, 
between the capital of England, and the capital of that frog-eating 
and wooden-shoe wearing country, which the illustrious Common 
Councilman so sarcastically settled. 

In Paris, there is no Cattle Market. Cows and calves are sold 
within the city, but, the Cattle Markets are at Poissy, about thir- 
teen miles off", on a line of railway ; and at Sceaux, about five miles 
off". The Poissy market is held every Thursday ; the Sceaux mar- 
ket, every Monday. In Paris, there are no slaughter-houses, in our 
acceptation of the term. There are five public Abattoirs — within 
the walls, though in the suburbs — and in these all the slaughter- 
ing for the city must be performed. They are managed by a Syn- 
dicat or Guild of Butchers, who confer with the Minister of the 
Interior on all matters affecting the trade, and who are consulted 
when any new regulations are contemplated for its government. 
They are, likewise, under the vigilant superintendence of the police. 
Every butcher must be licensed : which proves him at once to be 
a slave, for we don't license butchers in England — we only license 
apothecaries, attorneys, post-masters, publicans, hawkers, retailers 
of tobacco, snuff", pepper, and vinegar — and one or two other little 
trades, not worth mentioning. Every arrangement in connection 
with the slaughtering and sale of meat, is matter of strict police 
regulation. (Slavery again, though we certainly have a general 
sort of Police Act here.) 

But, in order that the reader may understand what a monument 
of folly these frog-eaters have raised in their abattoirs and cattle- 
markets, and may compare it with what common counselling has 
done for us all these years, and would still do but for the innovat- 
ing spirit of the times, here follows a short account of a recent visit 
to these places : 



92 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

It was as sharp a Febniary morning as you would desire to 
feel at your fingers' ends when I turned out — tumbling over a 
chiffonier with his little basket and rake, who was picking up the 
bits of coloured paper that had been swept out, over-night, from a 
Bon-Bon shop — to take the Butchers' Train to Poissy. A cold, 
dim light just touched the high roofs of the Tuileries which have 
seen such changes, such distracted crowds, such riot and bloodshed ; 
and they looked as calm, and as old, all covered with white frost, 
as the very Pyramids. There was not light enough, yet, to strike 
upon the towers of Notre Dame across the water ; but I thought 
of the dark pavement of the old Cathedral as just beginning to be 
streaked with grey; and of the lamps in the "House of God," the 
Hospital close to it, burning low and being quenched ; and of the 
keeper of the Morgue going about with a fading lantern, busy in 
the arrangement of his terrible waxwork for another sunny day. 

The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I 
announcing our departure with an engine shriek to sleepy Paris, 
rattled away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the 
Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees — the hoar frost lying cold 
in shady places, and glittering in the light — and here we are at 
Poissy ! Out leap the butchers, who have been chattering all the 
way like madmen, and off they straggle for the Cattle Market (still 
chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all shapes, 
in coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horse-skins, furs, 
shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin, anything you 
please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a frosty 
morning. 

Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground 
and Strasburg or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little 
Poissy ! Barring the details of your old church, I know you well, 
albeit we make acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know 
your narrow, straggling, winding streets, with a kennel in the 
midst, and lamps slung across. I know your picturesque street- 
corners, winding up-hill Heaven knows why or where ! I know 
your tradesmen's inscriptions, in letters not quite fat enough ; your 
barbers' brazen basins dangling over little shops ; your Cafc^s and 
Estaminets, with cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, 
and pictures of crossed billiard-cues outside. I know this identical 
grey horse with his tail rolled up in a knot like the " back hair " 
of an untidy woman, who won't be shod, and who makes himself 
heraldic by clattering across the street on his hind legs, while 
twenty voices shriek and growl at him as a Brigand, an accursed 
Robber, and an everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your sparkling 
town-fountain, too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle- 



A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 93 

market, gushing so freshly, under the auspices of a gallant little 
sublimated Frenchman wrought in metal, perched upon the top. 
Through all the land of France I know this unswept room at The 
Glory, with its peculiar smell of beans and coflfee, where the 
butchers crowd about the stove, drinking the thinnest of wine from 
the smallest of tumblers ; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle 
with the longest of loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar ; where 
Madame at the counter easily acknowledges the homage of all entering 
and departing butchers ; where the billiard-table is covered up in the 
midst like a great bird-cage — but the bird may sing by-and-bye ! 

A bell! The Calf Market ! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty 
payment and departure on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame 
reproaches Ma'amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to the 
devotion of a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The 
Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an unobliterated 
inscription, or an undamaged crowned head, among them. 

There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confu- 
sion. The open area devoted to the market is divided into three 
portions : the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. 
Calves at eight, cattle at ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very clean. 

The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or 
four feet high, open on all sides, with a lofty overspreading roof, 
supported on stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort 
of vineyard from Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, 
lie innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, 
and all trembling violently — perhaps with cold, perhaps with 
fear, perhaps with pain ; for, this mode of tying, which seems to 
be an absolute superstition with the peasantry, can hardly fail to 
cause great suffering. Here they lie, patiently in rows, among 
the straw, with their stolid faces and inexpressive eyes, superin- 
tended by men and women, boys and girls ; here they are inspected 
by our friends, the butchers, bargained for, and bought. Plenty 
of time ; plenty of room ; plenty of good humour. " Monsieur 
Francois in the bear-skin, how do you do, my friend 1 You come 
from Paris by the train ? The fresh air does you good. If you 
are in want of three or four fine calves this market morning, my 
angel, I, Madame Doche, shall be happy to deal with you. Behold 
these calves. Monsieur Francois ! Great Heaven, you are doubt- 
ful ! Well, sir, walk round and look about you. If you find better 
for the money, buy them. If not, come to me ! " Monsieur Francois 
goes his way leisurely, and keeps a wary eye upon the stock. No 
other butcher jostles Monsieur Fran9ois ; Monsieur Francois jostles 
no other butcher. Nobody is flustered and aggravated. Nobody 
is savage. In the midst oif the country blue frocks and red hand- 



94 REPRINTED PIECES. 

kerchiefs, and the butchers' coats, shaggy, furry, and hairy: of 
calf-skin, cow-skin, horse-skin, and bear-skin : towers a cocked hat 
and a blue cloak. Slavery ! For our Police wear great-coats and 
glazed hats. 

But now the bartering is over, and the calves are sold. "Ho! 
Gregoire, Antoine, Jean, Louis ! Bring up the carts, my children ! 
Quick, brave infants ! Hola ! Hi ! " 

The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge 
of the raised pavement, and various hot infants carry calves upon 
their heads, and dexterously pitch them in, while other hot infants, 
standing in the carts, arrange the calves, and pack them carefully 
in straw. Here is a promising young calf, not sold, whom Ma- 
dame Doche unbinds. Pardon me, Madame Doche, but I fear 
this mode of tying the four legs of a quadruped together, though 
strictly k la mode, is not quite right. You observe, Madame 
Doche, that the cord leaves deep indentations in the skin, and 
that the animal is so cramped at first as not to know, or even 
remotely suspect that he is unbound, until you are so obliging as 
to kick him, in your delicate little way, and pull his tail like a 
bell-rope. Then, he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, 
and stumbles about like a drunken calf, or the horse at Franconi's, 
whom you may have seen, Madame Doche, who is supposed to 
have been mortally wounded in battle. But, what is this rubbing 
against me, as I apostrophise Madame Doche? It is another 
heated infant with a calf upon his head. " Pardon, Monsieur, but 
will you have the politeness to allow me to pass?" "Ah, sir, 
willingly. I am vexed to obstruct the way." On he staggers, calf 
and all, and makes no allusion whatever either to my eyes or limbs. 

Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake 
over these top rows ; then, off we will clatter, rumble, jolt, and 
rattle, a long row of us, out of the first town-gate, and out at the 
second town-gate, and past the empty sentry-box, and the little 
thin square bandbox of a guardhouse, where nobody seems to live ; 
and away for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a straight straight 
line, in the long long avenue of trees. We can neither choose our 
road, nor our pace, for that is all prescribed to us. The public 
convenience demands that our carts should get to Paris by such a 
route, and no other (Napoleon had leisure to find that out, while 
he had a little war with the world upon his hands), and woe betide 
us if we infringe orders. 

Droves of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bars 
fixed into posts of granite. Other droves advance slowly down 
the long avenue, past the second town-gate, and the first town- 
gate, and the sentry-box, and the bandbox, thawing the morning 



A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 95 

with their smoky breath as they come along. Plenty of room ; 
plenty of time. Neither man nor beast is driven out of his wits 
by coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, 
cabs, trucks, boys, whoopings, roarings, and multitudes. No tail- 
twisting is necessary — no iron pronging is necessary. There are 
no iron prongs here. The market for cattle is held as quietly as 
the market for calves. In due time, off the cattle go to Paris ; 
the drovers can no more choose their road, nor their time, nor the 
numbers they shall drive, than they can choose their hour for dying 
in the course of nature. 

Sheep next. The sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank 
of Paris established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind 
the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My 
name is Bull : yet I think I should like to see as good twin 
fountains — not to say in Smithfield, but in England anywhere. 
Plenty of room ; plenty of time. And here are sheep-dogs, sen- 
sible as ever, but with a certain French air about them — not with- 
out a suspicion of dominoes — with a kind of flavour of moustache 
and beard — demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an Eng- 
lish dog would be tight and close — not so troubled with business 
calculations as our English drovers' dogs, who have always got 
their sheep upon their minds, and think about their work, even 
resting, as you may see by their faces ; but, dashing, showy, rather 
unreliable dogs : who might worry me instead of their legitimate 
charges if they saw occasion — and might see it somewhat sud- 
denly. 

The market for sheep passes off" like the other two ; and away 
they go, by their allotted road to Paris. My way being the Rail- 
way, I make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling 
through the now high-lighted landscape ; thinking that the inex- 
perienced green buds will be wishing, before long, they had not 
been tempted to come out so soon ; and wondering who lives in 
this or that chateau, all window and lattice, and what the family 
may have for breakfast this sharp morning. 

After the Market comes the Abattoir. What abattoir shall I 
visit first ? Montmartre is the largest. So I will go there. 

The abattoirs are all within the walls of Paris, with an eye to 
the receipt of the octroi duty ; but they stand in open places in 
the suburbs, removed from the press and bustle of the city. They 
are managed by the Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, under the inspec- 
tion of the Police. Certain smaller items of the revenue derived 
from them are in part retained by the Guild for the payment of 
their expenses, and in part devoted by it to charitable purposes in 
connection with the trade. They cost six hundred and eighty thou- 



96 KEPKINTED PIECES. 

sand pounds ; and they return to the city of Paris an interest on 
that outlay, amounting to nearly six and a half per cent. 

Here, in a sufficiently dismantled space is the Abattoir of Mont- 
martre, covering nearly nine acres of ground, surrounded by a high 
wall, and looking from the outside like a cavalry barrack. At the 
iron gates is a small functionary in a large cocked hat. " Monsieur 
desires to see the abattoir ? Most certainly." State being incon- 
venient in private transactions, and Monsieur being already aware 
of the cocked hat, the functionary puts it into a little official bureau 
which it almost fills, and accompanies me in the modest attire — as 
to his head — of ordinary life. 

Many of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the 
arrival of each drove, it was turned into yonder ample space, where 
each butcher who had bought, selected his own purchases. Some, 
we see now, in these long perspectives of stalls with a high over- 
hanging roof of wood and open tiles rising above the walls. While 
they rest here, before being slaughtered, they are required to be fed 
and watered, and the stalls must be kept clean. A stated amount 
of fodder must always be ready in the loft above ; and the super- 
vision is of the strictest kind. The same regulations apply to sheep 
and calves ; for which, portions of tliese perspectives are strongly 
railed offi All the buildings are of the strongest and most solid 
description. 

After traversing these lairs, through which, besides the upper 
provision for ventilation just mentioned, there may be a thorough 
current of air from opposite windows in the side walls, and from 
doors at either end, we traverse the broad, paved courtyard until 
we come to the slaughter-houses. They are all exactly alike, and 
adjoin each other, to the number of eight or nine together, in blocks 
of solid building. Let us walk into the first. 

It is firmly built and paved with stone. It is well lighted, 
thoroughly aired, and lavishly provided with fresh water. It has 
two doors opposite each other ; the first, the door by which I en- 
tered from the main yard ; the second, which is opposite, opening 
on another smaller yard, where the sheep and calves are killed on 
benches. The pavement of that yard, I see, slopes downward to a 
gutter, for its being more easily cleansed. The slaughter-house is 
fifteen feet high, sixteen feet and a half wide, and thirty-three feet 
long. It is fitted with a powerful windlass, by which one man at 
the handle can bring the head of an ox down to the ground to re- 
ceive the blow from the pole-axe that is to fell him — with the 
means of raising the carcass and keeping it suspended during the 
after-operation of dressing — and with hooks on which carcasses 
can hang, when completely prepared, without touching the walls. 



A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 97 

Upon the pavement of this first stone chamber, lies an ox scarcely 
dead. If I except the blood draining from him into a little stone 
well in a corner of the pavement, the place is free from offence as 
the Place de la Concorde. It is infinitely purer and cleaner, I know, 
my friend the functionary, than the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha, 
ha ! Monsieur is pleasant, but, truly, there is reason, too, in what 
he says. 

I look into another of these slaughter-houses. "Pray enter," 
says a gentleman in bloody boots. " This is a calf I have killed this 
morning. Having a little time upon my hands, I have cut and 
punctured this lace pattern in the coats of his stomach. It is pretty 
enough. I did it to divert myself" — " It is beautiful. Monsieur, 
the slaughterer ! " He tells me I have the gentility to say so. 

I look into rows of slaughter-houses. In many, retail dealers, 
who have come here for the purpose, are making bargains for meat. 
There is killing enough, certainly, to satiate an unused eye ; and 
there are steaming carcasses enough, to suggest the expediency of a 
fowl and salad for dinner; but, everywhere, there is an orderly, 
clean, well-systematised routine of work in progress — horrible 
work at the best, if you please ; but, so much the greater reason 
why it should be made the best of I don't know (I think I have 
observed, my name is Bull) that a Parisian of tlie lowest order is 
particularly delicate, or that his nature is remarkable for an infini- 
tesimal infusion of ferocity ; but, I do know, my potent, grave, and 
common counselling Signors, that he is forced, when at this work, 
to submit himself to a thoroughly good system, and to make an 
Englishman very heartily ashamed of you. 

Here, within the walls of the same abattoir, in other roomy and 
commodious buildings, are a place for converting the fat into tallow 
and packing it for market — a place for cleansing and scalding 
calves' heads and sheep's feet — a place for preparing tripe — stables 
and coach-houses for the butchers — innumerable conveniences, aid- 
ing in the diminution of offensiveness to its lowest possible point, 
and the raising of cleanliness and supervision to their highest. 
Hence, all the meat that goes out of the gate is sent away in clean 
covered carts. And if every trade connected with the slaughtering 
of animals were obliged by law to be carried on in the same place, 
I doubt, my friend, now reinstated in the cocked hat (whose civility 
these two francs imperfectly acknowledge, but appear munificently 
to repay), whether there could be better regulations than those which 
are carried out at the Abattoir of Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for 
I am away to the other side of Paris, to the Abattoir of Crenelle ! 
And there I find exactly the same thing on a smaller scale, with 
the addition of a magnificent Artesian well, and a different sort of 



98 REPRINTED PIECES. 

conductor, in the person of a neat little woman with neat little eyes, 
and a neat little voice, who picks her neat little way among the 
bullocks in a very neat little pair of shoes and stockings. 

Such is the Monument of French Folly which a foreigneering 
people have erected, in a national hatred and antipathy for common 
counselling wisdom. That wisdom, assembled in the City of Lon- 
don, having distinctly refused, after a debate of three days long, and 
by a majority of nearly seven to one, to associate itself with any 
Metropolitan Cattle Market unless it be held in the midst of the 
City, it follows that we shall lose the inestimable advantages of com- 
mon counselling protection, and be thrown, for a market, on our own 
wretched resources. In all human probability we shall thus come, 
at last, to erect a monument of folly very like this French monu- 
ment. If that be done, the consequences are obvious. The leather 
trade will be ruined, by the introduction of American timber, to be 
manufactured into shoes for the fallen English ; the Lord Mayor 
will be required, by the popular voice, to live entirely on frogs ; and 
both these changes will (how, is not at present quite clear, but cer- 
tainly somehow or other) fall on that unhappy landed interest which 
is always being killed, yet is always found to be alive — and kicking. 



Household Words, Vol. 2, No. 52, March 22, 1851. 

BILL-STICKING. 

If I had an enemy whom I hated — which Heaven forbid ! — 
and if I knew of something which sat heavy on his conscience, I 
think I would introduce that something into a Posting-Bill, and 
place a large impression in the hands of an active sticker. I can 
scarcely imagine a more terrible revenge. I should haunt him, by 
this means, night and day. I do not mean to say that I would 
publish his secret, in red letters two feet high, for all the town to 
read : I would darkly refer to it. It should be between him, and 
me, and the Posting-Bill. Say, for example, that, at a certain 
period of his life, my enemy had surreptitiously possessed himself 
of a key. I would then embark my capital in the lock business, 
and conduct that business on the advertising principle. In all my 
placards and advertisements, I would throw up the line Secret 
Keys. Thus, if my enemy passed an uninhabited house, lie would 
see his conscience glaring down on him from the parapets, and 
peeping up at him from the cellars. If he took a dead wall in his 



BILL-STICKING. 99 

walk, it would be alive with reproaches. If he sought refuge iu 
an omnibus, the panels thereof would become Belshazzar's palace 
to him. If he took boat, in a wild endeavour to escape, he would 
see the fatal words lurking under the arches of the bridges over 
the Thames. If he walked the streets with downcast eyes, he 
would recoil from the very stones of the pavement, made eloquent 
by lamp-black lithograph. If he drove or rode, his way would be 
blocked up, by enormous vans, each proclaiming the same words 
over and over again from its whole extent of surface. Until, 
having gradually grown thinner and paler, and having at last 
totally rejected food, he would miserably perish, and I should be 
revenged. This conclusion I should, no doubt, celebrate by laugh- 
ing a hoarse laugh in three syllables, and folding my arms tight 
upon my chest agreeably to most of the examples of glutted ani- 
mosity that I have had an opportunity of observing in connection 
with the Drama — which, by the bye, as involving a good deal of 
noise, appears to me to be occasionally confounded with the Drum- 
mer. 

The foregoing reflections presented themselves to my mind, the 
other day, as I contemplated (being newly come to London from 
the East Riding of Yorkshire, on a house-hunting expedition for 
next May), an old warehouse which rotting paste and rotting paper 
had brought down to the condition of an old cheese. It would 
have been impossible to say, on the most conscientious survey, how 
much of its front was brick and mortar, and how much decaying 
and decayed plaster. It was so thickly encrusted with fragments 
of bills, that no ship's keel after a long voyage could be half so 
foul. All traces of the broken windows were billed out, the doors 
were billed across, the w^ater-spout was billed over. The building 
was shored up to prevent its tumbling into the street ; and the 
very beams erected against it were less wood than paste and paper, 
they had been so continually posted and reposted. The forlorn 
dregs of old posters so encumbered this wreck, that there was no 
hold for new posters, and the stickers had abandoned the place in 
despair, except one enterprising man who had hoisted the last mas- 
querade to a clear spot near the level of the stack of chimneys 
where it waved and drooped like a shattered flag. Below the 
rusty cellar-grating, crumpled remnants of old bills torn down, 
rotted away in wasted heaps of fallen leaves. Here and there, 
some of the thick rind of the house had peeled off" in strips, and 
fluttered heavily down, littering the street ; but, still, below these 
rents and gashes, layers of decomposing posters showed themselves, 
as if they were interminable. I thought the building could never 
even be pulled down, but in one adhesive heap of rottenness and 



100 REPRINTED PIECES. 

poster. As to getting in — I don't believe that if the Sleeping 
Beauty and her Court had been so billed up, the young Prince 
could have done it. 

Knowing all the posters that were yet legible, intimately, and 
pondering on their ubiquitous nature, I was led into the reflections 
with which I began this paper, by considering what an awful thing 
it would be, ever to have wronged — say M. Jullien for example 

— and to have his avenging name in characters of fire incessantly 
before my eyes. Or to have injured Madame Tussaud, and 
undergo a similar retribution. Has any man a self-reproachful 
thought associated with pills, or ointment? What an avenging 
spirit to that man is Professor Holloway ! Have I sinned in 
oil? Cabburn pursues me. Have I a dark remembrance asso- 
ciated with any gentlemanly garments, bespoke or ready made? 
Moses and Son are on my track. Did I ever aim a blow at a 
defenceless fellow-creature's head ? That head eternally being 
measured for a wig, or that worse head which was bald before it 
used the balsam, and hirsute afterwards — enforcing the benevolent 
moral, " Better to be bald as a Dutch cheese than come to this," 

— undoes me. Have I no sore places in my mind which Mechi 
touches — which Nicoll probes — which no registered article what- 
ever lacerates ? Does no discordant note within me thrill responsive 
to mysterious watchwords, as "Revalenta Arabica," or "Number 
One St. Paul's Churchyard?" Then may I enjoy life, and be 
happy. 

Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing to this effect, I beheld ad- 
vancing towards me (I was then on Cornhill, near to the Royal 
Exchange), a solemn procession of three advertising vans, of first- 
class dimensions, each drawn by a very little horse. As the 
cavalcade approached, I was at a loss to reconcile the careless 
deportment of the drivers of these vehicles, with the terrific an- 
nouncements they conducted through the city, which being a sum- 
mary of the contents of a Sunday newspaper, were of the most 
thrilling kind. Robbery, fire, murder, and the ruin of the United 
Kingdom — each discharged in a line by itself, like a separate 
broadside of red-hot shot — were among the least of the warnings 
addressed to an unthinking people. Yet, the Ministers of Fate 
who drove the awful cars, leaned forward with their arms upon 
their knees in a state of extreme lassitude, for want of any subject 
of interest. The first man, whose hair I might naturally have ex- 
pected to see standing on end, scratched his head — one of the 
smoothest I ever beheld — with profound indifference. The second 
whistled. The third yawned. 

Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, as the 



BILL-STICKING. 101 

fatal cars came by me, that I descried in the second car, through 
the portal in which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched 
upon the floor. At the same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. 
The latter impression passed quickly from me; the former re- 
mained. Curious to know whether this prostrate figure was the 
one impressible man of the whole capital who had been stricken 
insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form had been 
placed in the car by the charioteer, from motives of humanity, I 
followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhall-market, and 
halted at a public-house. Each driver dismounted. I then dis- 
tinctly heard, proceeding from the second car, where I had dimly 
seen the prostrate form, the words : 

"And a pipe ! " 

The driver entering the public-house wath his fellows, apparently 
for purposes of refreshment, I could not refrain from mounting on 
the shaft of the second vehicle, and looking in at the portal. I 
then beheld, reclining on his back upon the floor, on a kind of 
mattress or divan, a little man in a shooting-coat. The exclamation 
" Dear me " which irresistibly escaped my lips caused him to sit 
upright, and survey me. I found him to be a good-looking little 
man of about fifty, with a shining face, a tight head, a bright eye, 
a moist wink, a quick speech, and a ready air. He had something 
of a sporting way with him. 

He looked at me, and I looked at him, until the driver displaced 
me by handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and what I understand is 
called "a screw" of tobacco — an object w^hich has the appearance 
of a curl-paper taken off" the barmaid's head, with the curl in it. 

"I beg your pardon," said I, when the removed person of the 
driver again admitted of my presenting my face at the portal. 
"But — excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother — 
do you live here ? " 

" That's good, too ! " returned the little man, composedly laying 
aside a pipe he had smoked out, and filling the pipe just brought to 
him. 

" Oh, you don't live here then ? " said I. 

He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a 
German tinder-box, and replied, " This is my carriage. When things 
are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the in- 
ventor of these wans." 

His pipe was now alight. He drank his beer all at once, .and 
he smoked and he smiled at me. 

" It was a great idea ! " said I. 

"Not so bad," returned the little man, with the modesty of 
merit. 



102 REPRINTED PIECES. 

" Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of 
my memory ? " I asked. 

"There's not much odds in the name," returned the little man, 
" — no name particular — I am the King of the Bill-S tickers." 

" Good gracious ! " said I. 

The monarch informed me, with a smile, that he had never been 
crowned or installed with any public ceremonies, but, that he was 
peaceably acknowledged as King of the Bill-Stickers in right of 
being the oldest and most respected member of " the old school of 
bill-sticking." He likewise gave me to understand that there was 
a Lord Mayor of the Bill-Stickers, whose genius was chiefly exer- 
cised within the limits of the city. He made some allusion, also, 
to an inferior potentate, called " Turkey-legs ; " but, I did not un- 
derstand that this gentleman was invested with much power. I 
rather inferred that he derived his title from some peculiarity of 
gait, and that it was of an honorary character. 

"My father," pursued the King of the Bill-Stickers, "was En- 
gineer, Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the Parish of St. Andrew's, Hol- 
born, in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. My 
father stuck bills at the time of the riots of London." 

" You must be acquainted with the whole subject of bill -sticking, 
from that time to the present ! " said I. 

"Pretty well so," was the answer. 

" Excuse me," said I ; " but I am a sort of collector " 

"Not Income-tax? "cried His Majesty, hastily removing his pipe 
from his lips. 

"No, no," said L 

" Water-rate?" said His Majesty. 

"No, no," I returned. 

"Gas? Assessed? Sewers ?" said His Majesty. 

"You misunderstand me," I replied, soothingly. " Not that sort 
of collector at all : a collector of facts." 

"Oh, if it's only facts," cried the King of the Bill-Stickers, re- 
covering his good-humour, and banishing the great mistrust that 
had suddenly fallen upon him, "come in and welcome! If it had 
been income, or winders, I think I should have pitched you out of 
the wan, upon my soul ! " 

Readily complying with the invitation, I squeezed myself in at 
the small aperture. His Majesty, graciously handing me a little 
three-legged stool on which I took my seat in a corner, inquired if 
I smoked. 

"I do; — that is, I can," I answered. 

"Pipe and a screw!" said His Majesty to the attendant chari- 
oteer. "Do you prefer a dry smoke, or do you moisten it ? " 



BILL-STICKING. 103 

As immitigated tobacco produces most disturbing effects upon 
my system (indeed, if I had perfect moral courage, I doubt if I 
should smoke at all, under any circumstances), I advocated moist- 
ure, and begged the Sovereign of the Bill-Stickers to name his usual 
liquor, and to concede to me the privilege of paying for it. After 
some delicate reluctance on his part, we were provided, through the 
instrumentality of the attendant charioteer, with a can of cold rum- 
and-water, flavoured with sugar and lemon. We were also fur- 
nished with a tumbler, and I was provided with a pipe. His 
Majesty, then observing that we might combine business with 
conversation, gave the word for the car to proceed; and, to my 
great delight, we jogged away at a foot pace. 

I say to my great delight, because I am very fond of novelty, 
and it was a new sensation to be jolting through the tumult of the 
city in that secluded Temple, partly open to the sky, surrounded 
by the roar without, and seeing nothing but the clouds. Occasion- 
ally, blows from whips fell heavily on the Temple's walls, when by 
stopping up the road longer than usual, we irritated carters and 
coachmen to madness ; but, they fell harmless upon us within and 
disturbed not the serenity of our peaceful retreat. As I looked up- 
ward, I felt, I should imagine, like the Astronomer Royal. I was 
enchanted by the contrast between the freezing nature of our exter- 
nal mission on the blood of the populace, and the perfect compos- 
ure reigning within those sacred precincts : where His Majesty, 
reclining easily on his left arm, smoked his pipe and drank his rum- 
and-water from his own side of the tumbler, which stood impar- 
tially between us. As I looked down from the clouds and caught 
his royal eye, he understood my reflections. " I have an idea," he 
observed, with an upward glance, "of training scarlet runners 
across in the season, — making a arbor of it, — and sometimes tak- 
ing tea in the same, according to the song." 

I nodded approval. 

" And here you repose and think ? " said I. 

" And think," said he, " of posters — walls — and hoardings." 

We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. 
I remembered a surprising fancy of dear Thomas Hood's, and won- 
dered whether this monarch ever sighed to repair to the great wall 
of China, and stick bills all over it. 

" And so," said he, rousing himself, "it's facts as you collect?" 

" Facts," said I. 

" The facts of bill-sticking," pursued His Majesty, in a benig- 
nant manner, " as known to myself, air as following. When my 
father was Engineer, Beadle, and Bill- Sticker to the parish of St. 
Andrew's, Holborn, he employed women to post bills for him. He 



104 REPRINTED PIECES. 

employed women to post bills at the time of the riots of London. 
He died at the age of seventy-five year, and was buried by the 
murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in the Waterloo-road," 

As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened 
with deference and silently. His Majesty, taking a scroll from his 
pocket, proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the follow- 
ing flood of information : 

" ' The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and dec- 
larations, and which were only a demy size, the manner of posting 
the bills (as they did not use brushes) was by means of a piece of 
wood which they called a ' dabber.' Thus things continued till 
such time as the State Lottery was passed, and then the printers 
began to print larger bills, and men were employed instead of 
women, as the State Lottery Commissioners then began to send 
men all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for 
six or eight months at a time, and they were called by the London 
bill-stickers ' trampers,'' their wages at the time being ten shillings 
per day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in 
large towns for five or six months together, distributing the schemes 
to all the houses in the town. And then there were more carica- 
ture wood-block engravings for posting-bills than there are at the 
present time, the principal printers, at that time, of posting-bills 
being Messrs. Evans and Ruffy, of Budge-row ; Thoroughgood and 
Whiting, of the present day ; and Messrs. Gye and Balne, Grace- 
church Street, City. The largest bills printed at that period were 
a two-sheet double crown ; and when they commenced printing 
four-sheet bills, two bill-stickers would work together. They had 
no settled wages per week, but had a fixed price for their work, 
and the London bill-stickers, during a lottery week, have been 
known to earn, each, eight or nine pounds per week, till the day of 
drawing ; likewise the men who carried boards in the street used 
to have one pound per week, and the bill-stickers at that time 
would not allow any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as 
they had a society amongst themselves, and very frequently dined 
together at some public-house where they used to go of an evening 
to have their work delivered out untoe 'em.' " 

All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner ; posting it, 
as it were, before me, in a great proclamation. I took advantage 
of the pause he now made, to inquire what a " two- sheet double 
crown " might express 1 

"A two-sheet double crown," replied the King, "is a bill thirty- 
nine inches wide by thirty inches high." 

"Is it possible," said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic ad- 
monitions we were then displaying to the multitude — which were 



BILL-STICKING. 105 

as infants to some of the posting-bills on the rotten old warehouse 
— " that some few years ago the largest bill was no larger than 
that ? " 

"The fact," returned the King, "is undoubtedly so." Here he 
instantly rushed again into the scroll. 

" ' Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling 
has gone, and nothing but jealousy exists, through the rivalry of 
each other. Several bill-sticking companies have started, but have 
failed. The first party that started a company was twelve year 
ago; but what was left of the old school and their dependants 
joined together and opposed them. And for some time we were 
quiet again, till a printer of Hatton Garden formed a company by 
hiring the sides of houses; but he was not supported by the 
public, and he left his wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last 
company that started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and 
hired of Messrs. Grissell and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, 
anJ established a bill-sticking office in Cursitor-street, Chancery- 
lane, and engaged some of the new bill-stickers to do their work, 
and for a time got the half of all our work, and with such spirit 
did they carry on their opposition towards us, that they used to 
give us in charge before the magistrate, and get us fined; but 
they found it so expensive, that they could not keep it up, for they 
were always employing a lot of ruffians from the Seven Dials to 
come and fight us ; and on one occasion the old bill-stickers went to 
Trafalgar Square to attempt to post bills, when they were given in 
custody by the watchman in their employ, and fined at Queen 
Square five pounds, as they would not allow any of us to speak in 
the office ; but when they were gone, we had an interview with the 
magistrate, who mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the 
time the men were waiting for the fine, this company started off" to 
a public-house that we were in the habit of using, and waited for 
us coming back, where a fighting scene took place that beggars 
description. Shortly after this, the principal one day came and 
shook hands with us, and acknowledged that he had broken up the 
company, and that he himself had lost five hundred pound in trying 
to overthrow us. We then took possession of the hoarding in Traf- 
algar Square ; but Messrs. Grissel and Peto would not allow us to 
post our bills on the said hoarding without paying them — and 
from first to last we paid upwards of two hundred pounds for that 
hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Club-house, 
Pall, Mall.'" 

His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid down his 
scroll (which he appeared to have finished), puffed at his pipe, and 
took some rum-and-water. I embraced the opportunity of asking 



106 HEPRINTED PIECES. 

how many divisions the art and mystery of bill-sticking comprised 1 
He replied, three — auctioneers' bill-sticking, theatrical bill-sticking, 
general bill-sticking. 

"The auctioneers' porters," said the King, "who do their bill- 
sticking, are mostly respectable and intelligent, and generally well 
paid for their work, whether in town or country. The price paid 
by the principal auctioneers for country work is nine shillings per 
day ; that is, seven shillings for day's work, one shilling for lodging, 
and one for paste. Town work is five shillings a day, including 
paste." 

"Town work must be rather hot-work," said I, "if there be 
many of those fighting scenes that beggar description, among the 
bill-stickers ? " 

" Well," replied the King, " I an't a stranger, I assure you, to 
black eyes ; a bill-sticker ought to know how to handle his fists a 
bit. As to that row I have mentioned, that grew out of competi- 
tion, conducted in an uncompromising spirit. Besides a man in a 
horse-and-shay continually following us about, the company had a 
watchman on duty, night and day, to prevent us sticking bills upon 
the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We went there, early one 
morning, to stick bills and to black-wash their bills if we were 
interfered with. We were interfered with, and I gave the word 
for laying on the wash. It was laid on — pretty brisk — and we 
were all taken to Queen Square : but they couldn't fine me. / knew 
that," — with a bright smile — "I'd only give directions — I was 
only the General." 

Charmed with this monarch's affability, I inquired if he had ever 
hired a hoarding himself. 

" Hired a large one," he replied, "opposite the Lyceum Theatre, 
when the buildings was there. Paid thirty pound for it ; let out 
places on it, and called it ' The External Paper Hanging Station.' 
But it didn't answer. Ah ! " said His Majesty thoughtfully, as he 
filled the glass, " Bill-stickers have a deal to contend with. The 
bill-sticking clause was got into the Police Act by a member of 
Parliament that employed me at his election. The clause is pretty 
stiff respecting where bills go ; but he didn't mind where his bills 
went. It was all right enough, so long as they were his bills ! " 

Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King's 
cheerful face, I asked whose ingenious invention that was, which I 
greatly admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges. 

" Mine ! " said His Majesty, " I was the first that ever stuck 
a bill under a bridge ! Imitators soon rose up, of course. — When 
don't they ? But they stuck 'em at low- water, and the tide came and 
swept the bills clean away. / knew that ! " The King laughed. 



BILL-STICKING. 107 

" Wliat may be the name of that instrument, like an immense 
fishing-rod," 1 inquired, "with which bills are posted on high 
places ? " 

"The joints," returned His Majesty. "Now, we use the joints 
where formerly we used ladders — as they do still in country 
places. Once, when Madame " (Vestris, understood) " was playing 
in Liverpool, another bill-sticker and me were at it together on the 
wall outside the Clarence Dock — me with the joints — him on a 
ladder. Lord ! I had my bill up, right over his head, yards above 
him, ladder and all, while he was crawling to his work. The 
people going in and out of the docks, stood and laughed ! — It's 
about thirty years since the joints come in." 

"Are there any bill-stickers who can't read?" I took the lib- 
erty of inquiring. 

"Some," said the King. "But they know^ which is the right 
side up'ards of their work. They keep it as it's given out to 'em. 
I have seen a bill or so stuck wrong side up'ards. But it's very 
rare." 

Our discourse sustained some interruption at this point, by the 
procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of about three quarters of 
a mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty, how- 
ever, entreating me not to be discomposed by the contingent 
uproar, smoked with great placidity, and surveyed the firmament. 

When we were again in motion, I begged to be informed what 
was the largest poster His Majesty had ever seen. The King 
replied, "A thirty-six sheet poster." I gathered, also, that there 
were about a hundred and fifty bill-stickers in London, and that 
His Majesty considered an average hand equal to the posting of 
one hundred bills (single sheets) in a day. The King was of opin- 
ion, that, although posters had much increased in size, they had 
not increased in number; as the abolition of the State Lotteries 
had occasioned a great falling off, especially in the country. Over 
and above which change, I bethought myself that the custom of 
advertising in newspapers had greatly increased. The completion 
of many London improvements, as Trafalgar Square (I particularly 
observed the singularity of His Majesty's calling that an improve- 
ment), the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late years reduced the 
number of advantageous posting-places. Bill-Stickers at present 
rather confine themselves to districts, than to particular descrip- 
tions of work. One man would strike over Whitechapel, another 
would take round Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City Road ; 
one (the King said) would stick to the Surrey side ; another would 
make a beat of the West-end. 

His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the 



108 REPRINTED PIECES. 

neglect of delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade 
by the new school : a profligate and iniferior race of impostors who 
took jobs at almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, 
and the confusion of their own misguided employers. He consid- 
ered that the trade was overdone with competition, and observed 
speaking of his subjects, " There are too many of 'em." He be- 
lieved, still, that things were a little better than they had been ; 
adducing, as a proof, the fact that particular posting places were 
now reserved, by common consent, for particular posters ; those 
places, however, must be regularly occupied by those posters, or 
they lapsed and fell into other hands. It was of no use giving a 
man a Drury Lane bill this week and not next. Where was it to 
go ? He was- of opinion that going to the expense of putting up 
your own board on which your sticker could display your own 
bills, was the only complete way of posting yourself at the present 
time ; but, even to eff'ect this, on payment of a shilling a week to 
the keepers of steam-boat piers and other such places, you must be 
able, besides, to give orders for theatres and public exhibitions, or 
you would be sure to be cut out by somebody. His Majesty 
regarded the passion for orders, as one of the most unappeasable 
appetites of human nature. If there were a building, or if there 
were repairs, going on, anywhere, you could generally stand some- 
thing and make it right with the foreman of the works ; but, 
orders would be expected from you, and the man who]* could give 
the most orders was the man who would come off best. There 
was this other objectionable point, in orders, that workmen sold 
them for drink, and often sold them to persons who were likewise 
troubled with the weakness of thirst : which led (His Majesty 
said) to the presentation of your orders at Theatre doors, by indi- 
viduals who were "too shakery" to derive intellectual profit from 
the entertainments, and who brought a scandal on you. Finally, 
His Majesty said that you could hardly put too little in a poster ; 
what you wanted, was, two or three good catch-lines for the eye to 
rest on — then, leave it alone — and there you were ! 

These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as 
I noted them down shortly afterwards. I am not aware that I 
have been betrayed into any alteration or suppression. The man- 
ner of the King was frank in the extreme ; and he seemed to me 
to avoid, at once that slight tendency to repetition which may have 
been observed in the conversation of His Majesty King George the 
Third, and that slight under-current of egotism which the curious 
observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of Napoleon 
Bonaparte. 

I must do the King the justice to say that it was I, and not he, 



EPSOM. 109 

who closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject 
of a remarkable optical delusion ; the legs of my stool appeared to 
me to double up ; the car to spin round and round with great vio- 
lence ; and a mist to arise between myself and His Majesty. In 
addition to these sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these 
unpleasant effects, either to the paste with which the posters were 
affixed to the van : which may have contained some small portion 
of arsenic; or, to the printer's ink, which may have contained 
some equally deleterious ingredient. Of this, I cannot be sure. I 
am only sure that I was not affected, either by the smoke, or the 
rum-and-water. I was assisted out of the vehicle, in a state of 
mind which I have only experienced in two other places — I allude 
to the Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding portion of the town 
of Calais — and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The pro- 
cession had then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for 
the King in several other cars, but I have not yet had the happi- 
ness of seeing His Majesty. 



Household Words, Vol. 3, No. 63, June 7, 1851. 

^ EPSOM. 

On that great occasion, an unused spectator might imagine that 
all London turned out. There is little perceptible difference in 
the bustle of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading to Epsom 
Downs are so thronged and blocked by every description of carriage 
that it is marvellous to consider how, when, and where, they were 
all made — out of what possible wealth they are all maintained — 
and by what laws the supply of horses is kept equal to the demand. 
Near the favourite bridges, and at various leading points of the 
leading roads, clusters of people post themselves by nine o'clock, to 
see the Derby people pass. Then come flitting by, barouches, 
phaetons, broughams, gigs, four-wheeled chaises, four-in-hands, 
Hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note, chaise-carts, donkey-carts, tilted 
vans made aborescent with green boughs and carrying no end of 
people, and a cask of beer — equestrians, pedestrians, horse-dealers, 
gentlemen, notabilities and swindlers by tens of thousands — grad- 
ually thickening and accumulating, until at last, a mile short of 
the turnpike, they become wedged together, and are very slowly 
filtered through layers of policemen, mounted and afoot, until, one 
by one, they pass the gate and skurry down the hill beyond. The 
most singular combinations occur in these turnpike stoppages and 



110 REPRINTED PIECES. 

presses. Four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over the shoulders 
of ladies in bright shawls, perched in gigs ; poles of carriages appear 
uninvited, in the midst of social parties in phaetons ; little, fast, 
short-stepping ponies run up carriage wheels before they can be 
stopped, and hold on behind like footmen. Now, the gentleman 
who is unaccustomed to public driving, gets into astonishing per- 
plexities. Now, the Hansom cab whisks craftily in and out, and 
seems occasionally to fly over a waggon or so. Now, the post-boy 
on a jibbing or shying horse, curses the evil hour of his birth, and 
is ingloriously assisted by the shabby hostler out of place, who is 
walking down with seven shabby companions more or less equine, 
open to the various chances of the road. Now, the air is fresh, and 
the dust flies thick and fast. Now, the canvas-booths upon the 
course are seen to ghsten and flutter in the distance. Now, the ad- 
venturous vehicles make cut across, and get into ruts and gravel- 
pits. Now, the heather in bloom is like a field of gold, and the 
roar of voices is like a wind. Now, we leave the hard road and go 
smoothly rolling over the soft green turf attended by an army of 
importunate worshippers in red jackets and stable jackets, who 
make a very Juggernaut car of our equipage and now breathlessly 
call us My Lord, and now Your Honour. Now, we pass the outer 
settlements of tents where pots and kettles are — where gipsy chil- 
dren are — where airy stabling is — where tares for horses may be 
bought — where water, water, water is proclaimed — where the Tum- 
bler in an old pea-coat, with a spangled fillet round his head, eats 
oysters, while his wife takes care of the golden globes, and the 
knives, and also of the starry little boy, their son, who lives prin- 
cipally upside down. Now we pay our one pound at the barrier, and 
go faster on still Juggernautwise, attended by our devotees, until 
at last we are drawn, and rounded, and backed, and sidled, and 
cursed and complimented, and vociferated, into a station on the hill 
opposite the Grand Stand, where we presently find ourselves on foot, 
much bewildered, waited on by five respectful persons, who ivill 
brush us all at once. 

Well, to be sure, there never was such a Derby Day, as this 
present Derby Day ! Never, to be sure, were there so many car- 
riages, so many fours, so many twos, so many ones, so many horse- 
men, so many people who have come down by "rail," so many 
fine ladies in so many broughams, so many of Fortnum and Mason's 
hampers, so much ice and champagne ! If I were on the turf, and 
had a horse to enter for the Derby, I would call that horse Fort- 
num and Mason, convinced that with that name he would beat the 
field. Public opinion would bring him in somehow. Look where 
I will — in some connection with the carriages — made fast upon 



EPSOM. Ill 

the top, or occupying the box, or tied up behind, or dangling below, 
or peeping out of window — I see Fortnum and Mason. And now, 
Heavens ! all the hampers fly wide open, and the green Downs 
burst into a blossom of lobster-salad ! 

As if the great Trafalgar signal had been suddenly displayed 
from the top of the Grand Stand, every man proceeds to do his 
duty. The weaker spirits, who were ashamed to set the great exam- 
ple, follow it instantly, and all around me there are table-cloths, pies, 
chickens, hams, tongues, rolls, lettuces, radishes, shell-fish, broad- 
bottomed bottles, clinking glasses, and carriages turned inside out. 
Amidst the hum of voices a bell rings. What's that 1 What's the 
matter? They are clearing the course. Never mind. Try the 
pigeon-pie. A roar. What's the matter ? It's only the dog upon 
the course. Is that all ? Glass of wine. Another roar. What's 
that 1 It's only the man who wants to cross the course, and is in- 
tercepted, and brought back. Is that all ? I wonder whether it 
is always the same dog and the same man, year after year ! A 
great roar. What's the matter ? By Jupiter, they are going to 
start ! 

A deeper hum and a louder roar. Everybody standing on Fort- 
num and Mason. Now they're off ! No. Noiv they're off ! No. 
]}^ow they're off ! No. Noiv they are ! Yes ! 

There they go ! Here they come ! Where ? Keep your eye 
on Tattenham Corner, and you'll see 'em, coming round in half a 
minute. Good gracious, look at the Grand Stand, piled up with 
human beings to the top, and at the wonderful effect of changing 
light as all their faces and uncovered heads turn suddenly this way ! 
Here they are ! Who is 1 The horses ! Where ? Here they 
come ! Green first. No ; Red first. No ; Blue first. No ; the 
Favourite first ! Who says so ? Look ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! All 
over. Glorious race. Favourite wins! Two hundred thousand 
pounds lost and won. You don't say so ! Pass the pie ! 

Now, the pigeons fly away with the news. Now, every one dis- 
mounts from the top of Fortnum and Mason, and falls to work with 
greater earnestness than before, on carriage boxes, sides, tops, 
wheels, steps, roofs, and rumbles. Now, the living stream upon 
the course, dammed for a little while at one point, is released, and 
spreads like parti-coloured grain. Now, the roof of the Grand 
Stand is deserted. Now, rings are formed upon the course, where 
strong men stand in pyramids on one another's heads ; where the 
Highland lady dances ; where the Devonshire Lad sets-to with the 
Bantam ; where the Tumbler throws the golden globes about, with 
the starry little boy tied round him in a knot. 

Now, all the variety of human riddles who propound themselves 



112 REPRINTED PIECES. 

on race-courses, come about the carriages, to be guessed. Now, 
the gipsy woman, with the flashing red or yellow handkerchief 
about her head, and the strange silvery-hoarse voice, appears. My 
pretty gentleman, to tell your fortin. Sir ; for you have a merry 
eye, my gentleman, and surprises is in store for you, connected with 
a dark lady as loves you better than you love a kiss in a dark cor- 
ner when the moon's a shining; for you have a lively 'art, my 
gentleman, and you shall know her secret thoughts, and the first 
and last letters of her name, my pretty gentleman, if you will cross 
your poor gipsy's hand with a little bit of silver, for the luck of 
the fortin as the gipsy will read true, from the lines of your hand, 
my gentleman, both as to what is past, and present, and to come. 
Now, the Ethiopians, looking unutterably hideous in the sunlight, 
play old banjoes and bones, on which no man could perform ten 
years ago, but which, it seems, any man may play now, if he will 
only blacken his face, put on a crisp wig, a white waistcoat and 
wristbands, a large white tie, and give his mind to it. Now, the 
sickly-looking ventriloquist, with an anxious face (and always with 
a wife in a shawl) teaches the alphabet to the puppet pupil, whom 
he takes out of his pocket. Now, my sporting gentlemen, you may 
ring the Bull, the Bull, the Bull ; you may ring the Bull ! Now, 
try your luck at the knock-em-downs, my Noble Swells — twelve 
heaves for sixpence, and a pincushion in the centre, worth ten times 
the money ! Now, the Noble Swells take five shillings' worth of 
" heaves," and carry ofl*a halfpenny wooden pear in triumph. Now, 
it hails, as it always does hail, formidable wooden truncheons round 
the heads, bodies, and shins of the proprietors of the said knock- 
em-downs, whom nothing hurts. Now, inscrutable creatures in 
smock frocks beg for bottles. Now, a coarse vagabond, or idiot, 
or a compound of the two, never beheld by mortal oft" a race-course, 
minces about, with ample skirts and a tattered parasol, counterfeit- 
ing a woman. Now, a shabby man, with an overhanging forehead, 
and a slinking eye, produces a small board, and invites your atten- 
tion to something novel and curious — three thimbles and one 
little pea — with a one, two, three — and a two, three, one — and 
a one — and a two — in the middle — right hand, left hand — go 
you any bet from a crown to five sovereigns you don't lift the 
thimble the pea's under ! Now, another gentleman (with a stick) 
much interested in the experiment, will "go" two sovereigns that 
he does lift the thimble provided strictly that the shabby man holds 
his hand still, and don't touch 'em again. Now, the bet's made, 
and the gentleman with the stick lifts obviously the wrong thimble 
and loses. Now, it is as clear as day to an innocent bystander, that 
the loser must have won if he had not blindly lifted the wrong 



EPSOM. 113 

thimble — in which he is strongly confirmed by another gentleman 
with a stick, also much interested, who proposes to " go him " 
halves - — a friendly sovereign to his sovereign — against the bank. 
Now, the innocent agrees, and loses — and so the world turns round 
bringing innocents with it in abundance, though the three confeder- 
ates are wretched actors and could live by no other trade if they 
couldn't do it better. 

Now, there is another bell, and another clearing of the course, 
and another dog, and another man, and another race. Now, there 
are all these things all over again. Now, down among the carriage- 
wheels and poles, a scrubby growth of drunken post-boys and the 
like has sprung into existence, like weeds among the many-coloured 
flowers of fine ladies in broughams, and so forth. Now, the drink- 
ing-booths are all full, and tobacco-smoke is abroad, and an ex- 
tremely civil gentleman confidentially proposes roulette. And now, 
faces begin to be jaded, and horses are harnessed, and wherever 
the old grey-headed beggar-man goes, he gets among traces and 
splinter-bars, and is roared at. 

So, now, we are on the road again, going home. Now, there are 
longer stoppages than in the morning ; for we are a dense mass of 
men and women, wheels, horses, and dust. Now, all the houses on 
the road seem to be turned inside out, like the carriages on the 
course, and the people belonging to the houses, like the people be- 
longing to the carriages, occupy stations which they never occupy 
at another time — on leads, on housetops, on out-buildings, at win- 
dows, in balconies, in door-ways, in gardens. Schools are drawn 
out to see the company go by. The academies for young gentle- 
men favour us with dried peas ; the Establishments for Young Ladies 
(into which sanctuaries many wooden pears are pitched), with 
bright eyes. We become sentimental, and wish we could marry 
Clapham. The crowd thickens on both sides of the road. All 
London appears to have come out to see us. It is like a trium- 
phant entry — except that, on the whole, we rather amuse than im- 
press the populace. There are little love-scenes among the chest- 
nut trees by the roadside — young gentlemen in gardens resentful 
of glances at young ladies from coach-tops — other young gentle- 
men in other gardens, whose arms, encircling young ladies, seem to 
be trained like the vines. There are good family pictures — stout 
fathers and jolly mothers — rosy cheeks squeezed in between the 
rails — and infinitesimal jockeys winning in canters on walking- 
sticks. There are smart maid-servants among the grooms at stable- 
doors, where Cook looms large and glowing. There is plenty of 
smoking and drinking among the tilted vans and at the public- 
houses, and some singing, but general order and good-humour. So, 

I 



114 REPKINTED PIECES. 

we leave the gardens and come into the streets, and if we there 
encounter a few ruffians throwing flour and chalk about, we know 
them for the dregs and refuse of a fine, trustworthy people, deserv- 
ing of all confidence and honour. 

And now we are at home again — far from absolutely certain of 
the name of the winner of the Derby — knowing nothing whatever 
about any other race of the day — still tenderly affected by the 
beauty of Clapham — and thoughtful over the ashes of Fortnum 
and Mason. 



Household Words, Vol. 3, No. 64, June 14, 1851. 
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 

How goes the night 1 Saint Giles's clock is striking nine. The 
weather is dull and wet, and the long lines of street lamps are 
blurred, as if we saw them through tears. A damp wind blows and 
rakes the pieman's fire out, when he opens the door of his little 
furnace, carrying away an eddy of sparks. 

Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We are punctual. Where is 
Inspector Field ? Assistant Commissioner of Police is already here, 
enwrapped in oil-skin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint 
Giles's steeple. Detective Sergeant, weary of speaking French all 
day to foreigners unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already here. 
Where is Inspector Field ? 

Inspector Field is, to-night, the guardian genius of the British 
Museum. He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on every corner 
of its solitary galleries, before he reports " all right." Suspicious 
of the Elgin marbles, and not to be done by cat-faced Egyptian 
giants with their hands upon their knees. Inspector Field, saga- 
cious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throwing monstrous shadows on the 
walls and ceilings, passes through the spacious rooms. If a mummy 
trembled in an atom of its dusty covering. Inspector Field would 
say, " Come out of that, Tom Green. I know you ! " If the small- 
est " Gonoph " about town were crouching at the bottom of a clas- 
sic bath, Inspector Field would nose him with a finer scent than 
the ogre's, when adventurous Jack lay trembling in his kitchen 
copper. But all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on, mak- 
ing little outward show of attending to anything in particular, just 
recognising the Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and won- 
dering, perhaps, how the detectives did it in the days before the Flood. 

Will Inspector Field be long about this work 1 He may be half- 
an-hour longer. He sends his compliments by Police Constable, 



ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 115 

and proposes that we meet at Saint Giles's Station House, across the 
road. Good. It were as well to stand by the fire, there, as in the 
shadow of Saint Giles's steeple. 

Anything doing here to-night 1 Not much. We are very quiet. 
A lost boy, extremely calm and small, sitting by the fire, whom we 
now confide to a constable to take home, for the child says that if 
you show him Newgate Street, he can show you where he lives — 
a raving drunken woman in the cells, who has screeched her voice 
away, and has hardly power enough left to declare, even with the 
passionate help of her feet and arms, that she is the daughter of a 
British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but she'll write a 
letter to the Queen ! but who is soothed with a drink of water — 
in another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for beg- 
ging — in another, her husband in a smock-frock, with a basket 
of watercresses — in another, a pickpocket — in another, a meek 
tremulous old pauper man who has been out for a holiday " and has 
took but a little drop, but it has overcome him after so many months 
in the house " — and that's all as yet. Presently, a sensation at 
the Station House door. Mr. Field, gentlemen ! 

Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a 
burly figure, and has come fast from the ores and metals of the 
deep mines of the earth, and from the Parrot Gods of the South 
Sea Islands, and from the birds and beetles of the tropics, and from 
the Arts of Greece and Rome, and from the Sculptures of Nineveh, 
and from the traces of an elder world, when these were not. Is 
Rogers ready 1 Rogers is ready, strapped and great-coated, with a 
flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a deformed Cyclops. 
Lead on, Rogers, to Rats' Castle ! 

How many people may there be in London, who, if we had 
brought them deviously and blindfold, to this street, fifty paces 
from the Station House, and within call of Saint Giles's church, 
would know it for a not remote part of the city in which their lives 
are passed ? How many, who, amidst this compound of sickening 
smells, these heaps of filth, these tumbling houses, with all their 
vile contents, animate and inanimate, slimily overflowing into the 
black road, would believe that they breathe this air 1 How much 
Red Tape may there be, that could look round on the faces which 
now hem us in — for our appearance here has caused a rush from all 
points to a common centre — the lowering foreheads, the sallow 
cheeks, the brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infected, vermin- 
haunted heaps of rags — and say " I have thought of this. I have 
not dismissed the thing. I have neither blustered it away, nor 
frozen it away, nor tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly said 
pooh, pooh ! to it when it has been shown to me " 1 



116 REPRINTED PIECES. 

This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. What Rogers 
wants to know, is, whether you will clear the way here, some of 
you, or whether you won't ; because if you don't do it right on end, 
he'll lock you up ! What ! You are there, are you, Bob Miles? 
You haven't had enough of it yet, haven't you 1 You want three 
months more, do you ? Come away from that gentleman ! What 
are you creeping round there for? 

"What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers?" says Bob Miles, 
appearing, villanous, at the end of a lane of light, made by the 
lantern. 

" I'll let you know pretty quick, if you don't hook it. Will 
you hook it ? " 

A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. " Hook it, Bob, 
when Mr. Rogers and Mr, Field tells you ! Why don't you hook 
it, when you are told to ? " 

The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr. 
Rogers's ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on the owner. 

"What! You are there, are you. Mister Click? You hook it 
too — come ! " 

"What for?" says Mr. Click, discomfited. 
. "You hook it, will you ! " says Mr. Rogers with stern emphasis. 

Both Click and Miles do "hook it," without another word, or, 
in plainer English, sneak away. 

" Close up there, my men ! " says Inspector Field to two con- 
stables on duty who have followed. " Keep together, gentlemen ; 
we are going down here. Heads ! " 

Saint Giles's clmrch strikes half-past ten. We stoop low, and 
creep down a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar. 
There is a fire. There is a long deal table. There are benches. 
The cellar is full of company, chiefly very young men in various 
conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some are eating supper. There 
are no girls or women present. Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentle- 
men, and to this company of noted thieves ! 

" Well my lads ! How are you, my lads ? What have you been 
doing to-day ? Here's some company come to see you, my lads ! 
There's a plate of beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine young 
man ! And there's a mouth for a steak, sir ! Why, I should be 
too proud of such a mouth as that, if I had it myself ! Stand up 
and show it, sir ! Take ofi* your cap. There's a fine young man 
for a nice little party, sir ! An't he ? " 

Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field's eye is 
the roving eye that searches every corner of the cellar as he talks. 
Inspector Field's hand is the well-known hand that has collared 
half the people here, and motioned their brothers, sisters, fathers, 



ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR EIELD. 117 

mothers, male and female friends, inexorably to New South Wales. 
Yet Inspector Field stands in this den, the Sultan of the place. 
Every thief here cowers before him, like a schoolboy before his 
schoolmaster. All watch him, all answer when addressed, all laugh 
at his jokes, all seek to propitiate him. This cellar company alone 
— to say nothing of the crowd surrounding the entrance from the 
street above, and making the steps shine with eyes — is strong 
enough to murder us all, and willing enough to do it; but, let 
Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief here, and take him ; 
let him produce that ghostly truncheon from his pocket, and say, 
with his business-air, "My lad, I want you !" and all Rats' Castle 
shall be stricken with paralysis, and not a finger move against him, 
as he fits the handcuffs on ! 

Where's the Earl of Warwick ? — Here he is, Mr. Field ! Here's 
the Earl of Warwick, Mr. Field ! — there you are, my Lord. 
Come for'ard. There's a chest, sir, not to have a clean shirt on. 
An't it ? Take your hat off, my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed 
if I was you — and an Earl, too — to show myself to a gentleman 
with my hat on ! — The Earl of Warwick laughs and uncovers. 
All the company laugh. One pickpocket, especially, laughs with 
great enthusiasm. what a jolly game it is, when Mr. Field 
comes down — and don't want nobody ! 

So, you are here, too, are you, you tall, grey, soldierly-looking, 
grave man, standing by the fire % — Yes, sir. Good evening, Mr. 
Field ! — Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman once ? — Yes, 
Mr. Field. — And what is it you do now ; I forget % — Well, Mr. 
Field, I job about as well as I can. I left my employment on ac- 
count of delicate health. The family is still kind to me. Mr. Wix 
of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard up. Like- 
wise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a trifle from them occasion- 
ally, and rub on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr. Field's eye rolls 
enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious begging-letter writer. — 
Good night, my lads ! — Good night, Mr. Field, and thank'ee, sir ! 

Clear the street here, half a thousand of you ! Cut it, Mrs. 
Stalker — none of that — we don't want you ! Rogers of the 
flaming eye, lead on to the tramps' lodging-house ! 

A dream of baleful faces attends to the door. Now, stand back 
all of you ! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants himself, com- 
posedly whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow pas- 
sage. Mrs. Stalker, I am something'd that need not be written 
here, if you won't get yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, 
if I see that face of yours again ! 

Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven, hums through our 
hand from the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as we open it. 



118 REPRINTED PIECES. 

and are stricken back by the pestilent breath that issues from within. 
Rogers to the front with the light, and let us look ! 

Ten, twenty, thirty — who can count them ! Men, women, chil- 
dren, for the most part naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots 
in a cheese ! Ho ! In that dark corner yonder ! Does anybody 
lie there ? Me sir, Irish me, a widder, with six children. And 
yonder ? Me sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor babes. 
And to the left there? Me sir, Irish me, along with two more 
Irish boys as is me friends. And to the right there? Me sir and 
the Murphy fam'ly, numbering five blessed souls. And what's this, 
coiling, now, about my foot 1 Another Irish me, pitifully in want 
of shaving, whom I have awakened from sleep — and across my 
other foot lies his wife — and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie 
their three eldest — and their three youngest are at present squeezed 
between the open door and the wall. And why is there no one on 
that little mat before the sullen fire ? Because O'Donovan, with 
his wife and daughter, is not come in from selling Lucifers ! Nor 
on the bit of sacking in the nearest corner ? Bad luck ! Because 
that Irish family is late to night, a cadging in the streets ! 

They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them 
sit up, to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming eye, 
there is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. 
Who is the landlord here ? — I am, Mr. Field ! says a bundle of ribs 
and parchment against the wall, scratching itself. — Will you spend 
this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coff'ee for 'em all ? — Yes, 
sir, I will ! — he'll do it, sir, he'll do it fair. He's honest ! cry 
the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into their 
graves again. 

Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new 
streets, never heeding, never asking, where tlie wretches whom we 
clear out, crowd. With such scenes at our doors, with all the 
plagues of Egypt tied up with bits of cobweb in kennels so near our 
homes, we timorously make our Nuisance Bills and Boards of 
Health, nonentities, and think to keep away the Wolves of Crime 
and Filth, by our electioneering ducking to little vestrymen and our 
gentlemanly handling of Red Tape ! 

Intelligence of the coff'ee money has got abroad. The yard is 
full, and Rogers of the flaming eye is beleaguered with entreaties to 
show other Lodging Houses. Mine next ! Mine ! Mine ! Rogers, 
military, obdurate, stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads 
away ; all falling back before him. Inspector Field follows. De- 
tective Sergeant, with his barrier of arm across the little passage, 
deliberately waits to close the procession. He sees behind him, 
without any eff*ort, and exceedingly disturbs one individual far in 



ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 119 

the rear by coolly calling out, " It won't do, Mr. Michael ! Don't 
try it ! " 

After council holden in the street, we enter other lodging-houses, 
public-houses, many lairs and holes; all noisome and offensive; 
none so filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The 
Ethiopian party are expected home presently — were in Oxford 
Street when last heard of — shall be fetched, for our delight, 
within ten minutes. In another, one of the two or three Profess- 
ors who draw Napoleon Buonaparte and a couple of mackerel, on 
the pavement, and then let the work of art out to a speculator, is 
refreshing after his labours. In another, the vested interest of the 
profitable nuisance has been in one family for a hundred years, and 
the landlord drives in comfortably from the country to his snug 
little stew in town. In all. Inspector Field is received with 
warmth. Coiners and smashers droop before him; pickpockets 
defer to him ; the gentle sex (not very gentle here) smile upon 
him. Half-drunken hags check themselves in the midst of pots of 
beer, or pints of gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and pressingly to ask 
the honour of his finishing the draught. One beldame in rusty 
black has such admiration for him, that she runs a whole street's 
length to shake him by the hand ; tumbling into a heap of mud 
by the way, and still pressing her attentions when her very form 
has ceased to be distinguishable 'through it. Before the power of 
the law, the power of superior sense — for common thieves are 
fools beside these men — and the power of a perfect mastery of 
their character, the garrison of Rats' Castle and the adjacent For- 
tresses make but a skulking show indeed when reviewed by In- 
spector Field. 

Saint Giles's clock says it will be midnight in half-an-hour, and 
Inspector Field says we must hurry to the Old Mint in the Bor- 
ough, The cab-driver is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense of 
his responsibility. Now, what's your fare, my lad ? — you know. 
Inspector Field, what's the good of asking me I 

Say, Parker, strapped and great-coated, and waiting in dim 
Borough doorway by appointment, to replace the trusty Rogers 
whom we left deep in Saint Giles's, are you ready ? Ready, In- 
spector Field, and at a motion of my wrist behold my flaming eye. 

This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of the Old Mint, full of 
low lodging-houses, as you see by the transparent canvas-lamps and 
blinds, announcing beds for travellers ! But it is greatly changed, 
friend Field, from my former knowledge of it ; it is infinitely quieter 
and more subdued than when I was here last, some seven years ago % 
yes ! Inspector Haynes, a first-rate man, is on this station now 
and plays the Devil with them ! 



120 REPEINTED PIECES. 

Well, my lads ! How are you to-night, my lads ? Playing 
cards here, eh ? Who wins ? — Why, Mr. Field, I, the sulky gen- 
tleman with the damp flat side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with 
the end of my neckerchief which is like a dirty eel-skin, am losing 
just at present, but I suppose I must take my pipe out of my 
mouth, and be submissive to you — I hope I see you well, Mr. 
Field % — Aye, all right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got up- 
stairs % Be pleased to show the rooms ! 

Why Deputy, Inspector Field can't say. He only knows that 
the man who takes care of the beds and lodgers is always called 
so. Steady, Deputy, with the flaring candle in the blacking- 
bottle, for this is a, slushy back-yard, and the wooden staircase out- 
side the house creaks and has holes in it. 

Again, in these confined intolerable rooms, burrowed out like the 
holes of rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but fuller of intolerable 
smells, are crowds of sleepers, each on his foul truckle-bed coiled 
up beneath a rug. Halloa here ! Come ! Let us see you ! 
Show your face ! Pilot Parker goes from bed to bed and turns 
their slumbering heads towards us, as a salesman might turn 
sheep. Some wake up with an execration and a threat. — What ! 
who spoke % ! If it's the accursed glaring eye that fixes me, 
go where I will, I am helpless. Here ! I sit up to be looked at. 
Is it me you want % Not you, lie down again ! and I lie down, 
with a woful growl. 

Wherever the turning lane of light becomes stationary for a 
moment, some sleeper appears at the end of it, submits himself to 
be scrutinised, and fades away into the darkness. 

There should be strange dreams here. Deputy. They sleep 
sound enough, says Deputy, taking the candle out of the blacking- 
bottle, snuffing it with his fingers, throwing the snuff into the 
bottle, and corking it up with the candle ; that's all / know. 
What is the inscription, Deputy, on all the discoloured sheets? 
A precaution against loss of linen. Deputy turns down the rug of 
an unoccupied bed and discloses it. Stop Thief ! 

To lie at night, wrapped in the legend of my slinking life ; to 
take the cry that pursues me, waking, to my breast in sleep ; to 
have it staring at me, and clamouring for me, as soon as conscious- 
ness returns ; to have it for my first-foot on New- Year's day, my 
Valentine, my Birthday salute, my Christmas greeting, my parting 
with the old year. Stop Thief ! 

And to know that I mu^t be stopped, come what will. To know 
that I am no match for this individual energy and keenness, or 
this organised and steady system ! Come across the street, here, 
and, entering by a little shop, and yard, examine these intricate 



ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 121 

passages and doors, contrived for escape, flapping and counter-flap- 
ping, like the lids of the conjuror's boxes. But what avail they ? 
Who gets in by a nod, and shows their secret working to us 1 
Inspector Field. 

Don't forget the old Farm House, Parker ! Parker is not the 
man to forget it. We are going there, now. It is the old Manor- 
House of these parts, and stood in the country once. Then, per- 
liaps, there was something, which was not the beastly street, to see 
from the shattered low fronts of the overhanging wooden houses 
we are passing under — shut up now, pasted over with bills about 
the literature and drama of the Mint, and mouldering away. This 
long paved yard was a paddock or a garden once, or a court in 
front of the Farm House. Perchance, with a dovecot in the cen- 
tre, and fowls pecking about — with fair elm trees, then, where 
discoloured chimney-stacks and gables are now — noisy, then, with 
rooks which have yielded to a different sort of rookery. It's like- 
lier than not. Inspector Field thinks, as we turn into the common 
kitchen, which is in the yard, and many paces from the house. 

Well my lads and lasses, how are you all ? Where's Blackey, 
who has stood near London Bridge these five-and-twenty years, 
with a painted skin to represent disease ? — Here he is, Mr. Field ! 

— How are you, Blackey ? — Jolly, sa ! Not playing the fiddle 
to-night, Blackey ? — Not a night, sa ! A sharp, smiling youth, 
the wit of the kitchen, interposes. He an't musical to-night, sir. 
I've been giving him a moral lecture ; I've been a talking to him 
about his latter end, you see. A good many of these are my pu- 
pils, sir. This here young man (smoothing down the hair of one 
near him, reading a Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine. I'm a teach- 
ing of him to read, sir. He's a promising cove, sir. He's a smith, 
he is, and gets his living by the sweat of the brow, sir. So do I, 
myself, sir. This young woman is my sister, Mr. Field. She's 
getting on very well too. I've a deal of trouble with 'em, sir, but 
I'm richly rewarded, now I see 'em all a doing so well, and grow- 
ing up so creditable. That's a great comfort, that is, an't it, sir ? 

— In the midst of the kitchen (the whole kitchen is in ecstasies 
with this impromptu "chaff") sits a young, modest, gentle-look- 
ing creature, with a beautiful child in her lap. She seems to 
belong to the company, but is so strangely unlike it. She has such 
a pretty, quiet face and voice, and is so proud to hear the child 
admired — - thinks you would hardly believe that he is only nine 
months old ! Is she as bad as the rest, I wonder ? Inspectorial 
experience does not engender a belief contrariwise, but prompts the 
answer. Not a ha'porth of diff'erence ! 

There is a piano going in the old Farm House as we approach. 



122 EEPRINTED PIECES. 

It stops. Landlady appears. Has no objections, Mr. Field, to 
gentlemen being brought, but wishes it were at earlier hours, the 
lodgers complaining of inconwenience. Inspector Field is polite 
and soothing — knows his woman and the sex. Deputy (a girl in 
this case) shows the way up a heavy broad old staircase, kept very 
clean, into clean rooms where many sleepers are, and where painted 
panels of an older time look strangely on the truckle-beds. The 
sight of whitewash and the smell of soap — two things we seem by 
this time to have parted from in infancy — make the old Farm 
House a phenomenon, and connect themselves with the so curiously 
misplaced picture of the pretty mother and child long after we 
have left it, — long after we have left, besides, the neighbouring 
nook with something of a rustic flavour in it yet, where once, 
beneath a low wooden colonnade still standing as of yore, the emi- 
nent Jack Sheppard condescended to regale himself, and where, 
now, two old bachelor brothers in broad hats (who are whispered 
in the Mint to have made a compact long ago that if either should 
ever marry, he must forfeit his share of the joint property) still 
keep a sequestered tavern, and sit o' nights smoking pipes in the 
bar, among ancient bottles and glasses, as our eyes behold them. 

How goes the night now ? Saint George of South wark answers 
with twelve blows upon his bell. Parker, good night, for Williams 
is already waiting over in the region of Katclifife Highway, to show 
the houses where the sailors dance. 

I should like to know where Inspector Field was born. In Rat- 
clifle Highway, I would have answered with confidence, but for his 
being equally at home wherever we go. He does not trouble his 
head as I do, about the river at night. He does not care for its 
creeping, black and silent, on our right there, rushing through 
sluice gates, lapping at piles and posts and iron rings, hiding 
strange things in its mud, running away with suicides and acci- 
dentally drowned bodies faster than midnight funeral should, and 
acquiring such various experience between its cradle and its grave. 
It has no mystery for him. Is there not the Thames Police ! 

Accordingly, Williams leads the way. We are a little late, for 
some of the houses are already closing. No matter. You show us 
plenty. All the Landlords know Inspector Field. All pass him, 
freely and good-humouredly, wheresoever he wants to go. So 
thoroughly are all these houses open to him and our local guide, 
that, granting that sailors must be entertained in their own way — 
as I suppose they must, and have a right to be — I hardly know 
how such places could be better regulated. Not that I call the 
company very select, or the dancing very graceful — even so grace- 
ful as that of tire German Sugar Bakers, whose assembly, by the 



ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 123 

Minories, we stopped to visit — but there is watchful maintenance 
of order in every house, and swift expulsion where need is. Even 
in the midst of drunkenness, both of the lethargic kind and the 
lively, there is sharp landlord supervision, and pockets are in less 
peril than out of doors. These houses show, singularly, how much 
of the picturesque and romantic there truly is in the sailor, requiring 
to be especially addressed. All the songs (sung in a hailstorm of 
halfpence, which are pitched at the singer without the least ten- 
derness for the time or tune — mostly from great rolls of copper 
carried for the purpose — and which he occasionally dodges like 
shot as they fly near his head) are of the sentimental sea sort. All 
the rooms are decorated with nautical subjects. Wrecks, engage- 
ments, ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses on iron-bound coasts, 
ships blowing up, ships going down, ships running ashore, men 
lying out upon the main yard in a gale of wind, sailors and ships 
in every variety of peril, constitute the illustrations of fact. Noth- 
ing can be done in the fanciful way, without a thumping boy upon 
a scaly dolphin. 

How goes the night now? Past one. Black and Green are 
waiting in Whitechapel to unveil the mysteries of Wentworth 
Street. Williams, the best of friends must part. Adieu ! 

Are not Black and Green ready at the appointed place ? yes ! 
They glide out of shadow as we stop. Imperturbable Black opens 
the cab-door ; Imperturbable Green takes a mental note of the 
driver. Both Green and Black then open, each his flaming eye, 
and marshal us the way that we are going. 

The lodging-house we want, is hidden in a maze of streets and 
courts. It is fast shut. We knock at the door, and stand hushed 
looking up for a light at one or other of the begrimed old lattice 
windows in its ugly front, when another constable comes up — 
supposes that we want "to see the school." Detective Sergeant 
meanwhile has got over a rail, opened a gate, dropped down an 
area, overcome some other little obstacles, and tapped at a window. 
Now returns. The landlord will send a deputy immediately. 

Deputy is heard to stumble out of bed. Deputy lights a candle, 
draws back a bolt or two, and appears at the door. Deputy is a 
shivering shirt and trousers by no means clean, a yawning face, a 
shock head much confused externally and internally. We want to 
look for some one. You may go up with the light, and take 'em 
all, if you like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sitting down upon 
a bench in the kitchen with his ten fingers sleepily twisting in his 
hair. 

Halloa here ! Now then ! Show yourselves. That'll do. It's 
not you. Don't disturb yourself any more ! So on, through a 



124 REPRINTED PIECES. 

labyrinth of airless rooms, each man responding, like a wild beast, 
to the keeper who has tamed him, and who goes into his cage. 
What, you haven't found him, then 1 says Deputy, when we came 
down. A woman mysteriously sitting up all night in the dark by 
the smouldering ashes of the kitchen fire, says it's only tramps and 
cadgers here ; it's gonophs over the way. A man, mysteriously 
walking about the kitchen all night in the dark, bids her hold her 
tongue. We come out. Deputy fastens the door and goes to bed 
again. 

Black and Green, you know Bark, lodging-house keeper and 
receiver of stolen goods 1 — yes, Inspector Field. — Go to Bark's 
next. 

Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch, near his street-door. As 
we parley on the step with Bark's deputy. Bark growls in his bed. 
We enter, and Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red villain and a 
wrathful, with a sanguine throat that looks very much as if it were 
expressly made for hanging, as he stretches it out, in pale defiance, 
over the half-door of his hutch. Bark's parts of speech are of an 
awful sort — principally adjectives. I won't, says Bark, have no 
adjective police and adjective strangers in my adjective premises ! 
I won't, by adjective and substantive ! Give me my trousers, and 
I'll send the whole adjective police to adjective and substantive ! 
Give me, says Bark, my adjective trousers ! I'll put an adjective 
knife in the whole bileing of 'em. I'll punch their adjective heads. 
I'll rip up their adjective substantives. Give me my adjective 
trousers ! says Bark, and I'll spile the bileing of 'em. 

Now, Bark, what's the use of this ? Here's Black and Green, 
Detective Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You know we will come 
in. — I know you won't ! says Bark. Somebody give me my 
adjective trousers ! Bark's trousers seem difficult to find. He 
calls for them as Hercules might for his club. Give me my adjec- 
tive trousers ! says Bark, and I'll spile the bileing of 'em. 

Inspector Field holds that it's all one whether Bark likes the 
visit or don't like it. He, Inspector Field, is an Inspector of the 
Detective Police, Detective Sergeant is Detective Sergeant, Black 
and Green are constables in uniform. Don't you be a fool. Bark, 
or you know it will be the worse for you. — I don't care, says Bark. 
Give me my adjective trousers ! 

At two o'clock in the morning, we descend into Bark's low 
kitchen, leaving Bark to foam at the mouth above, and Imper- 
turbable Black and Green to look at him. Bark's kitchen is 
crammed full of thieves, holding a conversazione there by lamp- 
light. It is by far the most dangerous assembly we have seen yet. 
Stimulated by the ravings of Bark, above, their looks are sullen, 



OUR WATERING-PLACE. 125 

but not a man speaks. We ascend again. Bark has got his 
trousers, and is in a state of madness in the passage with his back 
against a door that shuts off the upper staircase. We observe, in 
other respects, a ferocious individuality in Bark. Instead of " Stop 
Thief ! " on his linen, he prints " Stolen from Baek's ! " 

Now Bark, we are going upstairs ! — No, you ain't ! — You re- 
fuse admission to the Police, do you, Bark 1 — Yes, I do ! I refuse 
it to all the adjective police, and to all the adjective substantives. 
If the adjective coves in the kitchen was men, they'd come up now, 
and do for you ! Shut me that there door ! says Bark, and sud- 
denly we are enclosed in the passage. They'd come up and do for 
you ! cries Bark, and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen ! They'd 
come up and do for you ! cries Bark again, and waits. Not a sound 
in the kitchen ! We are shut up, half-a-dozen of us, in Bark's 
house in the innermost recesses of the worst part of London, in 
the dead of the night — the house is crammed with notorious rob- 
bers and ruffians — and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They know the 
weight of the law, and they know Inspector Field and Co. too well. 

We leave bully Bark to subside at leisure out of his passion and 
his trousers, and, I dare say, to be inconveniently reminded of this 
little brush before long. Black and Green do ordinary duty here, 
and look serious. 

As to White, who waits on Holborn Hill to show the courts that 
are eaten out of Rotten Gray's Inn Lane, where other lodging- 
houses are, and where (in one blind alley) the Thieves' Kitchen 
and Seminary for the teaching of the art to children, is, the night 
has so worn away, being now 

almost at odds with morning, which is which, 

that they are quiet, and no light shines through the chinks in the 
shutters. As undistinctive Death will come here, one day, sleep 
comes now. The wicked cease from troubling sometimes, even in 
this life. 



Household Words, Vol. 3, No. 71, Aug. 2, 1851. 
OUR WATERING-PLACE. 

In the Autumn-time of the year, when the great metropolis is 
so much hotter, so much noisier, so much more dusty or so much 
more water-carted, so much more crowded, so much more disturb- 
ing and distracting in all respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea- 



126 REPRINTED PIECES. 

beach becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, 
this idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk-cliff 
in the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithful 
resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its picture. 

The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie 
as still before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is dead 
low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the cliff, 
as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate the sea ; 
and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of radish-seed 
are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in their larger 
manner when the wind blows. But the ocean lies winking in the 
sunlight like a drowsy lion — its glassy waters scarcely curve upon 
the shore — the fishing-boats in the tiny harbour are all stranded 
in the mud — our two colliers (our watering-place has a maritime 
trade employing that amount of shipping) have not an inch of 
water within a quarter of a mile of them, and turn, exhausted, on 
their sides, like faint fish of an antediluvian species. Rusty cables 
and chains, ropes and rings, undermost parts of posts and piles and 
confused timber-defences against the waves, lie strewn about, in a 
brown litter of tangled sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a 
family of giants had been making tea here for ages, and had ob- 
served an untidy custom of throwing their tea-leaves on the shore. 

In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high 
and dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, 
we must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little 
semi-circular sweep of houses tapering off* at the end of the wooden 
pier into a point in the sea, was a gay place, and when the light- 
house overlooking it shone at daybreak on company dispersing 
from public balls, is but dimly traditional now. There is a bleak 
chamber in our watering-place which is yet called the Assembly 
" Rooms," and understood to be available on hire for balls or con- 
certs ; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little gentleman 
came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced 
there, in bygone ages, with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known 
to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of in- 
numerable duels. But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very 
rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded more imagination than our 
watering-place can usually muster, to believe him ; therefore, except 
the Master of the " Rooms" (who to this hour wears knee-breeches, 
and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes), nobody 
did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the Honour- 
able Miss Peepy, long deceased. 

As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering- 
place now red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a 



OUR WATERING-PLACE. 127 

misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, 
or a Juggler, or somebody with an Orrery that is several stars 
behind the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with 
the name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignomin- 
iously written in, but you may be sure this never happens twice to 
the same unfortunate person. On such occasions the discoloured 
old Billiard Table that is seldom played at (unless the ghost of the 
Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is pushed 
into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front seats, 
back seats, and reserved seats ■ — ■ which are much the same after 
you have paid — and a few dull candles are lighted — wind per- 
mitting — and the performer and the scanty audience play out 
a short match which shall make the other most low-spirited — 
which is usually a drawn game. After that, the performer in- 
stantly departs with maledictory expressions, and is never heard of 
more. 

But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that 
an annual sale of "Fancy and other China," is announced herewith 
mysterious constancy and perseverance. Where the china comes 
from, where it goes to, why it is annually put up to auction when 
nobody ever thinks of bidding for it, how it comes to pass that it 
is always the same china, whether it would not have been cheaper, 
with the sea at hand, to have thrown it away, say in eighteen hun- 
dred and thirty, are standing enigmas. Every year the bills come 
out, every year the Master of the Rooms gets into a little pulpit 
on a table, and offers it for sale, every year nobody buys it, every 
year it is put away somewhere till next year, when it appears again 
as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a faint remem- 
brance of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the 
work of Parisian and Genevese artists — chiefly bilious-faced clocks, 
supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling 
like lame legs — to which a similar course of events occurred for 
several years, until they seemed to lapse away, of mere imbecility. 

Attached to our Assembly Rooms is a library. There is a wheel 
of fortune in it, but it is rusty and dusty, and never turns. A 
large doll, with movable eyes, was put up to be raffled for, by five- 
and-twenty members at two shillings, seven years ago this autumn, 
and the list is not full yet. We are rather sanguine, now, that the 
raffle will come off next year. We think so, because we only want 
nine members, and should only want eight, but for number two 
having grown up since her name was entered, and withdrawn it 
when she was married. Down the street, there is a toy-ship of 
considerable burden, in the same condition. Two of the hoys who 
were entered for that raffle have gone to India in real ships, since ; 



128 REPRINTED PIECES. 

and one was shot, and died in the arms of his sister's lover, by 
whom he sent his last words home. 

This is the library for the Minerva Press. If you want that 
kind of reading, come to our watering-place. The leaves of the 
romances, reduced to a condition very like curl-paper, are thickly 
studded with notes in pencil : sometimes complimentary, sometimes 
jocose. Some of these commentators, like commentators in a more 
extensive way, quarrel with one another. One young gentleman 
who sarcastically writes " ! ! ! " after every sentimental passage, 
is pursued through his literary career by another, who writes "In- 
sulting Beast ! " Miss Julia Mills has read the whole collection of 
these books. She has left marginal notes on the pages, as "Is not 
this truly touching? J. M." " How thrilling ! J. M." "Entranced 
here by the Magician's potent spell. J. M." She has also italicised 
her favourite traits in the description of the hero, as "his hair, 
which was dark and ^vavy, clustered in rich profusion around a 
marble brow, whose lofty paleness bespoke the intellect within." 
It reminds her of another hero. She adds, " How like B. L. Can 
this be mere coincidence? J. M." 

You would hardly guess which is the main street of our watering- 
place, but you may know it by its being always stopped up with 
donkey-chaises. Whenever you come here, and see harnessed don- 
keys eating clover out of barrows drawn completely across a narrow 
thoroughfare, you may be quite sure you are in our High Street. 
Our Police you may know by his uniform, likewise by his never on 
any account interfering with anybody — especially the tramps and 
vagabonds. In our fancy shops we have a capital collection of 
damaged goods, among which the flies of countless summers "have 
been roaming." We are great in obsolete seals, and in faded pin- 
cushions, and in rickety camp-stools, and in exploded cutlery, and 
in miniature vessels, and in stunted little telescopes, and in objects 
made of shells that pretend not to be shells. Diminutive spades, 
barrows, and baskets, are our principal articles of commerce ; but 
even they don't look quite new somehow. They always seem to 
have been offered and refused somewhere else, before they came 
down to our watering-place. 

Yet, it must not be supposed that our watering-place is an 
empty place, deserted by all visitors except a few staunch persons 
of approved fidelity. On the contrary, the chances are that if you 
came down here in August or September, you wouldn't find a 
house to lay your head in. As to finding either house or lodging 
of which you could reduce the terms, you could scarcely engage in 
a more hopeless pursuit. For all this, you are to observe that 
every season is the worst season ever known, and that the house- 



OUR WATERING-PLACE. 129 

holding population of our watering-place are ruined regularly every 
autumn. They are like the farmers, in regard that it is surprising 
how much ruin they will bear. We have an excellent hotel — 
capital baths, warm, cold, and shower — first-rate bathing machines 
— and as good butchers, bakers, and grocers, as heart could desire. 
They all do business, it is to be presumed, from motives of philan- 
thropy — but it is quite certain that they are all being ruined. 
Their interest in strangers, and their politeness under ruin, bespeak 
their amiable nature. You would say so, if you only saw the 
baker helping a new comer to find suitable apartments. 

So far from being at a discount as to company, we are in fact 
what would be popularly called rather a nobby place. Some tip- 
top " Nobbs" come down occasionally — even Dukes and Duchesses. 
We have known such carriages to blaze among the donkey-chaises, 
as made beholders wink. Attendant on these equipages come 
resplendent creatures in plush and powder, who are sure to be 
stricken disgusted with the indifferent accommodation of our 
watering-iiace, and who, of an evening (particularly when it rains), 
may be seen very much out of drawing, in rooms far too small for 
their fine figures, looking discontentedly out of little back windows 
into bye-streets. The lords and ladies get on well enough and 
quite good-humouredly : but if you want to see the gorgeous phe- 
nomena who wait upon them at a perfect non-plus, you should come 
and look at the resplendent creatures with little back parlours for 
servants' halls, and turn-up bedsteads to sleep in, at our watering- 
place. You have no idea how they take it to heart. 

We have a pier — a queer old wooden pier, fortunately without 
the slightest pretensions to architecture, and very picturesque in 
consequence. Boats are hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all 
over it; lobster-pots, nets, masts, oars, spars, sails, ballast, and 
rickety capstans, make a perfect labyrinth of it. For ever hover- 
ing about this pier, with their hands in their pockets, or leaning 
over the rough bulwark it opposes to the sea, gazing through tele- 
scopes which they carry about in the same profound receptacles, 
are the Boatmen of our watering-place. Looking at them, you 
would say that surely these must be the laziest boatmen in the 
world. They lounge about, in obstinate and inflexible pantaloons 
that are apparently made of wood, the whole season through. 
Whether talking together about the shipping in the Channel, or 
gruffly unbending over mugs of beer at the public-house, you would 
consider them the slowest of men. The chances are a thousand to 
one that you might stay here for ten seasons, and never see a boat- 
man in a hurry. A certain expression about his loose hands, when 
they are not in his pockets, as if he were carrying a considerable 



130 REPRINTED PIECES. 

lump of iron in each, without any inconvenience, suggests strength, 
but he never seems to use it. He has the appearance of perpetually- 
strolling — running is too inappropriate a word to be thought of — 
to seed. The only subject on which he seems to feel any approach 
to enthusiasm, is pitch. He pitches everything he can lay hold 
of, — the pier, the palings, his boat, his house, — when there is 
nothing else left he turns to and even pitches his hat, or his rough- 
weather clothing. Do not judge him by deceitful appearances. 
These are among the bravest and most skilful mariners that exist. 
Let a gale arise and swell into a storm, let a sea run that might 
appal the stoutest heart that ever beat, let the Light-boat on these 
dangerous sands throw up a rocket in the night, or let them hear 
through the angry roar the signal-guns of a ship in distress, and 
these men spring up into activity so dauntless, so valiant, and 
heroic, that the world cannot surpass it. Cavillers may object 
that they chiefly live upon the salvage of valuable cargoes. So 
they do, and God knows it is no great living that they get out of 
the deadly risks they run. But put that hope of gain aside. Let 
these rough fellows be asked, in any storm, who volunteers for the 
life-boat to save some perishing souls, as poor and empty-handed as 
themselves, whose lives the perfection of human reason does not 
rate at the value of a farthing each ; and that boat will be manned, 
as surely and as cheerfully, as if a thousand pounds were told down 
on the weather-beaten pier. For this, and for the recollection of 
their comrades whom we have known, whom the raging sea has 
engulfed before their children's eyes in such brave eff'orts, whom 
the secret sand has buried, we hold the boatmen of our watering- 
place in our love and honour, and are tender of the fame they well 
deserve. 

So many children are brought down to our watering-place that, 
when they are not out of doors, as they usually are in fine weather, 
it is wonderful where they are put : the whole village seeming 
much too small to hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you 
see no end of salt and sandy little boots drying on upper window- 
sills. At bathing-time in the morning, the little bay re-echoes with 
every shrill variety of shriek and splash — after which, if the 
weather be at all fresh, the sand teems with small blue mottled 
legs. The sands are the children's great resort. They cluster 
there, like ants : so busy burying their particular friends, and 
making castles with infinite labour which the next tide overthrows, 
that it is curious to consider how their play, to the music of the 
sea, foreshadows the realities of their after lives. 

It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach that 
there seems to be between the children and the boatmen. They 



OUR WATERING-PLACE. 131 

mutually make acquaintance, and take individual likings, without 
any help. You will come upon one of those slow heavy fellows 
sitting down patiently mending a little ship for a mite of a boy, 
whom he could crush to death by throwing his lightest pair of 
trousers on him. You will be sensible of the oddest contrast 
between the smooth little creature, and the rough man who seems 
to be carved out of hard-grained wood — between the delicate hand 
expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can 
hardly feel the rigging of thread they mend — between the small 
voice and the gruff growl — and yet there is a natural propriety in 
the companionship : always to be noted in confidence between a 
child and a person who has any merit of reality and genuineness : 
which is admirably pleasant. 

We have a preventive station at our watering-place, and much 
the same thing may be observed — in a lesser degree, because of 
their oflQcial character — of the coast blockade ; a steady, trusty, 
well-conditioned, well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about 
looking you full in the face, and with a quiet thorough-going way 
of passing along to their duty at night, carrying huge sou- wester 
clothing in reserve, that is fraught with all good prepossession. 
They are handy fellows — neat about their houses — industrious 
at gardening — would get on with their wives, one thinks, in a 
desert island — and people it, too, soon. 

As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face, 
and his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of weather, it warms 
our hearts when he comes into church on a Sunday, with that 
bright mixture of blue coat, buff waistcoat, black neck-kerchief, 
and gold epaulette, that is associated in the minds of all English- 
men with brave, unpretending, cordial, national service. We like 
to look at him in his Sunday state ; and if we w^ere First Lord 
(really possessing the indispensable qualification for the office of 
knowing nothing whatever about the sea), w^e would give him a 
ship to-morrow. 

We have a church, by the bye, of course — a hideous temple of 
flint, like a great petrified haystack. Our chief clerical dignitary, 
who, to his honour, has done much for education both in time and 
money, and has established excellent schools, is a sound, shrewd, 
healthy gentleman, who has got into little occasional difficulties 
with the neighbouring farmers, but has had a pestilent trick of 
being right. Under a new regulation, he has yielded the church 
of our watering-place to another clergyman. Upon the whole we 
get on in church well. We are a little bilious sometimes, about 
these days of fraternisation, and about nations arriving at a new 
and more unprejudiced knowledge of each other (which our Chris- 



132 REPRINTED PIECES. 

tianity don't quite approve), but it soon goes off, and then we get 
on very well. 

There are two dissenting chapels, besides, in our small watering- 
place; being ill about the proportion of a hundred and twenty 
guns to a yacht. But the dissension that has torn us lately, has 
not been a religious one. It has arisen on the novel question of 
Gas. Our watering-place has been convulsed by the agitation, Gas 
or No Gas. It was never reasoned why No Gas, but there was 
a great No Gas party. Broadsides were printed and stuck about 
— a startling circumstance in our watering-place. The No Gas 
party rested content with chalking "No Gas ! " and "Down with 
Gas ! " and other such angry war-whoops, on the few back gates 
and scraps of wall which the limits of our watering-place afford ; 
but the Gas party printed and posted bills, wherein they took 
the high ground of proclaiming against the No Gas party, that 
it was said Let there be light and there was light ; and that 
not to have light (that is gas-light) in our watering-place, was 
to contravene the great decree. Whether by these thunderbolts or 
not, the No Gas party were defeated ; and in this present season 
we have had our handful of shops illuminated for the first time. 
Such of the No Gas party, however, as have got shops, remain 
in opposition and burn tallow — exhibiting in their windows the 
very picture of the sulkiness that punishes itself, and a new 
illustration of the old adage about cutting off your nose to be 
revenged on your face, in cutting off their gas to be revenged on 
their business. 

Other population than we have indicated, our watering-place has 
none. There are a few old used-up boatmen who creep about in 
the sunlight with the help of sticks, and there is a poor imbecile 
shoemaker who wanders his lonely life away among the rocks, as 
if he were looking for his reason — which he will never find. 
Sojourners in neighbouring watering-places come occasionally in 
flys to stare at us, and drive away again as if they thought us very 
dull; Italian boys come. Punch comes, the Fantoccini come, the 
Tumblers come, the Ethiopians come ; Glee-singers come at night, 
and hum and vibrate (not always melodiously) under our windows. 
But they all go soon, and leave us to ourselves again. We once 
had a travelling Circus and Wombwell's Menagerie at the same 
time. They both know better than ever to try it again ; and the 
Menagerie had nearly razed us from the face of the earth in getting 
the elephant away — his caravan was so large, and the watering- 
place so small. We have a fine sea, wholesome for all people ; 
profitable for the body, profitable for the mind. The poet's words 
are sometimes on its awful lips ; 



A FLIGHT. 133 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Yet it is not always so, for the speech of the sea is various, and 
wants not abundant resource of cheerfulness, hope, and lusty encour- 
agement. And since I have been idling at the window here, the tide 
has risen. The boats are dancing on the bubbling water : the col- 
liers are afloat again ; the white-bordered waves rush in ; the children 

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
When he comes back ; 

the radiant sails are gliding past the shore, and shining on the far 
horizon; all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swelling up with life 
and beauty, this bright morning. 



Household Words, Vol. 3, No. 75, Aug. 30, 1851. 
A FLIGHT. 

When" Don Diego de — I forget his name — the inventor of the 
last new Flying Machines, price so many francs for ladies, so many 
more for gentlemen — when Don Diego, by permission of Deputy 
Chaff" Wax and his noble band, shall have taken out a Patent for the 
Queen's dominions, and shall have opened a commodious Warehouse 
in an airy situation ; and when all persons of any gentility will 
keep at least a pair of wings, and be seen skimming about in every 
direction ; I shall take a flight to Paris (as I soar round the world) 
in a cheap and independent manner. At present, my reliance is on 
the South Eastern Railway Company, in whose Express Train here 
I sit, at eight of the clock on a very hot morning, under the very 
hot roof of the Terminus at London Bridge, in danger of being 
" forced " like a cucumber or a melon, or a pine-apple — And talk- 
ing of pine-apples, I suppose there never were so many pine-apples 
in a Train as there appear to be in this Train. 

Whew ! The hot-house air is faint with pine-apples. Every 
French citizen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples home. The com- 



134 REPRINTED PIECES. 

pact little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, 
to whom I yielded up my heart under the auspices of that brave . 
child, " Meat-chell," at the St. James's Theatre the night before 
last) has a pine-apple in her lap. Compact Enchantress's friend, confi- 
dante, mother, mystery, Heaven knows what, has two pine-apples 
in her lap, and a bundle of them under the seat. Tobacco-smoky 
Frenchmen in Algerine wrapper, with peaked hood behind, who 
might be Abd-el-Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems to be dressed 
entirely in dirt and braid, carries pine-apples in a covered basket. 
Tall, grave, melancholy Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and 
hair close-cropped, with expansive chest to waistcoat, and compres- 
sive waist to coat : saturnine as to his pantaloons, calm as to his 
feminine boots, precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as to 
his linen: dark-eyed, high-foreheaded, hawk-nosed — got up, one 
thinks, like Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into 
a highly genteel Parisian — has the green end of a pine-apple stick- 
ing out of his neat valise. 

Whew ! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcing-frame, 
I wonder what would become of me — whether I should be forced 
into a giant, or should sprout or blow into some other phenomenon ! 
Compact Enchantress is not ruffled by the heat — she is always 
composed, always compact. look at her little ribbons, frills, and 
edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her bracelets, at 
her bonnet, at everything about her ! How is it accomplished ! 
What does she do to be so neat 1 How is it that every trifle she 
wears belongs to her, and cannot choose but be a part of her 1 And 
even Mystery, look at her/ A model. Mystery is not young, not 
pretty, though still of an average candle-light passability; but 
she does such miracles in her own behalf, that, one of these days, 
when she dies, they'll be amazed to find an old woman in her bed, 
distantly like her. She was an actress once, I shouldn't wonder, and 
had a Mystery attendant on herself Perhaps, Compact Enchantress 
will live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at the side-scenes, 
and to sit opposite to Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile 
and talk subserviently, as Mystery does now. That's hard to believe ! 

Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First English- 
man, in the monied interest — flushed, highly respectable — Stock 
Exchange, perhaps — City, certainly. Faculties of second Eng- 
lishman entirely absorbed in hurry. Plunges into the carriage, 
blind. Calls out of window concerning his luggage, deaf Suffo- 
cates himself under pillows of great-coats, for no reason, and in a 
demented manner. Will receive no assurance from any porter what- 
soever. Is stout and hot, and wipes his head, and makes himself 
hotter by breathing so hard. Is totally incredulous respecting as- 



A FLIGHT. 135 

surance of Collected Guard, that " there's no hurry." No hurry ! 
And a flight to Paris in eleven hours ! 

It is all one to me in this drowsy corner, hurry or no hurry. 
Until Don Diego shall send home my wings, my flight is with the 
South Eastern Company. I can fly with the South Eastern, more 
lazily, at all events, than in the upper air. I have but to sit here 
thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked away. I am not account- 
able to anybody for the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle 
summer flight; my flight is provided for by the South Eastern and 
is no business of mine. 

The bell ! With all my heart. It does not require me to do 
so much as even to flap my wings. Something snorts for me, some- 
thing shrieks for me, something proclaims to everything else that 
it had better keep out of my way, — and away I go. 

Ah ! The fresh air is pleasant after the forcing-frame, though it 
does blow over these interminable streets, and scatter the smoke of 
this vast wilderness of chimneys. Here we are — no, I mean there 
we were, for it has darted far into the rear — in Bermondsey where 
the tanners live. Flash ! The distant shipping in the Thames is 
gone. Whirr ! The little streets of new brick and red tile, with 
here and there a flagstaff growing like a tall weed out of the scarlet 
beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer and ditch for the pro- 
motion of the public health, have been fired ofi'in a volley. Whizz ! 
Dust-heaps, market-gardens, and waste grounds. Rattle ! New 
Cross Station. Shock ! There we were at Croydon. Bur-r-r-r ! 
The tunnel. 

I wonder why it is that when I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin 
to feel as if I were going at an Express pace the other way. I am 
clearly going back to London now. Compact Enchantress must 
have forgotten something, and reversed the engine. No ! After 
long darkness, pale fitful streaks of light appear. I am still flying 
on for Folkestone. The streaks grow stronger — become continu- 
ous — become the ghost of day — become the living day — became 
I mean — the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly through 
sunlight, all among the harvest and the Kentish hops. 

There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. I wonder where it 
was, and when it was, that we exploded, blew into space somehow, 
a Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heads and faces looking at 
us out of cages, and some hats waving. Monied Interest says it 
was at Reigate Station. Expounds to Mystery how Reigate Station 
is so many miles from London, which Mystery again develops to 
Compact Enchantress. There might be neither a Reigate nor a 
London for me, as I fly away among the Kentish hops and harvest. 
What do / care ? 



136 EEPRINTED PIECES. 

Bang ! We have let another Station off, and fly away regardless. 
Everything is flying. The hop-gardens turn gracefully towards me, 
presenting regular avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl away. 
So do the pools and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full bloom 
delicious to the sight and smell, corn-sheaves, cherry-orchards, apple- 
orchards, reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that taper off into 
little angular corners, cottages, gardens, now and then a church. 
Bang, bang ! A double-barrelled Station ! Now a wood, now a 

bridge, now^ a landscape, now a cutting, now a Bang ! a 

single-barrelled Station ^ — there was a cricket-match somewhere 
with two white tents, and then four flying cows, then turnips — 
now the wires of the electric telegraph are all alive, and spin, and 
blurr their edges, and go up and down, and make the intervals be- 
tween each other most irregular : contracting and expanding in the 
strangest manner. Now we slacken. With a screwing, and a grind- 
ing, and a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop ! 

Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes 
watchful, clutches his great-coats, plunges at the door, rattles it, 
cries "Hi ! " eager to embark on board of impossible packets, far 
inland. Collected Guard appears. "Are you for Tunbridge, sir?" 
"Tunbridge? No. Paris." "Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. 
Five minutes here, sir, for refreshment." I am so blest (antici- 
pating Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure a glass of water for 
Compact Enchantress. 

Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall 
take wing again directly? Refreshment-room full, platform full, 
porter with watering-pot deliberately cooling a hot wheel, another 
porter with equal deliberation helping the rest of the wheels bounti- 
fully to ice cream. Monied Interest and I re-entering the carriage 
first, and being there alone, he intimates to me that the French are 
" no go " as a Nation. I ask why ? He says, that Reign of Terror 
of theirs w^as quite enough. I ventured to inquire whether he re- 
members anything that preceded said Reign of Terror ? He says 
not particularly. "Because," I remark, "the harvest that is 
reaped, has sometimes been sown." Monied Interest repeats, as 
quite enough for him, that the French are revolutionary, — " and 
always at it." 

Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel, (whom the 
stars confound !) gives us her charming little side-box look, and 
smites me to the core. Mystery eating sponge-cake. Pine-apple 
atmosphere faintly tinged with suspicions of sherry. Demented 
Traveller flits past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agi- 
tation, and can't see it. Seems singled out by Destiny to be the 
only unhappy creature in the flight, who has any cause to hurry 



A FLIGHT. 137 

himself. Is nearly left behind. Is seized by Collected Guard after 
the Train is in motion, and bundled in. Still, has lingering sus- 
picions that there must be a boat in the neighbourhood, and will 
look wildly out of window for it. 

Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-gardens, reapers, gleaners, 
apple-orchards, cherry-orchards, Stations single and double-barrelled, 
Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to Mystery, 
in an exquisite manner) gives a little scream ; a sound that seems 
to come from high up in her precious little head ; from behind her 
bright little eyebrows. " Great Heaven, my pine-apple ! My 
Angel ! It is lost ! " Mystery is desolated. A search made. It 
is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flying) in the Persian 
manner. May his face be turned upside down, and Jackasses sit 
upon his uncle's grave ! 

Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Down-land with 
flapping crows flying over it whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, 
now Folkestone at a quarter after ten. "Tickets ready, gentle- 
men!" Demented dashes at the door. "For Paris, sir?" No 
hurry. 

Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and 
sidle to and fro (the whole Train) before the insensible Royal George 
Hotel, for some ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more 
heed of us than its namesake under water at Spithead, or under 
earth at Windsor, does. The Royal George's dog lies winking and 
blinking at us, without taking the trouble to sit up ; and the Royal 
George's " wedding party " at the open window (who seem, I must 
say, rather tired of bhss) don't bestow a solitary glance upon us, 
flying thus to Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in Folke- 
stone is evidently used up, on this subject. 

Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives that every man's hand 
is against him, and exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris. 
Refuses Consolation. Rattles door. Sees smoke on the horizon, 
and " knows " it's the boat gone without him. Monied Interest 
resentfully explains that he is going to Paris too. Demented sig- 
nifies that if Monied Interest chooses to be left behind, he don't. 

"Refreshments in the Waiting-Room, ladies and gentlemen. 
No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry whatever ! " 

Twenty minutes' pause, by Folkestone clock, for looking at En- 
chantress while she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery while she eats 
of everything there that is eatable, from pork-pie, sausage, jam, 
and gooseberries, to lumps of sugar. All this time, there is a very 
waterfall of luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling slant-wise from 
the pier into the steamboat. All this time. Demented (who has 
no business with it) watches it with starting eyes, fiercely requir- 



138 KEPKINTED PIECES. 

ing to be shown his luggage. When it at last concludes the cata- 
ract, he rushes hotly to refresh — is shouted after, pursued, jostled, 
brought back, pitched into the departing steamer upside down, and 
caught by mariners disgracefully. 

A lovely harvest day, a cloudless sky, a tranquil sea. The pis- 
ton-rods of the engines so regularly coming up from below, to look 
(as well they may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost 
knocking their iron heads against the cross beam of the skylight, 
and never doing it ! Another Parisian actress is on board, attended 
by another Mystery. Compact Enchantress greets her sister 
artist — Oh, the Compact One's pretty teeth! — and Mystery 
greets Mystery. My Mystery soon ceases to be conversational — 
is taken poorly, in a word, having lunched too miscellaneously — 
and goes below. The remaining Mystery then smiles upon the 
sister artists (who, I am afraid, wouldn't greatly mind stabbing 
each other), and is upon the whole ravished. 

And now I find that all the French people on board begin to 
grow, and all the English people to shrink. The French are near- 
ing home, and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas we are shaking 
it on. Zamiel is the same man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same 
man, but each seems to come into possession of an indescribable 
confidence that departs from us — from Monied Interest, for in- 
stance, and from me. Just what they gain, we lose. Certain 
British "Gents" about the steersman, intellectually nurtured at 
home on parody of everything and truth of nothing, become sub- 
dued, and in a manner forlorn ; and when the steersman tells them 
(not exultingly) how he has " been upon this station now eight year, 
and never see the old town of Bullum yet," one of them, with an 
imbecile reliance on a reed, asks him what he considers to be the 
best hotel in Paris 1 

Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three 
cliarming words. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, painted up (in 
letters a little too thin for their height) on the Custom-house wall — 
also by the sight of large cocked hats, without which demonstra- 
tive head-gear nothing of a public nature can be done upon this 
soil. All the rabid Hotel population of Boulogne howl and shriek 
outside a distant barrier, frantic to get at us. Demented, by some 
unlucky means peculiar to himself, is delivered over to their fury, 
and is presently seen struggling in a whirlpool of Touters — is 
somehow understood to be going to Paris — is, with infinite noise, 
rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into Custom-house bond- 
age with the rest of us. 

Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of pre- 
ternatural sharpness, with a shelving forehead and a shabby snufi"- 



A FLIGHT. 139 

coloured coat, who (from the wharf) brought me down with his eye 
before the boat came into port. He darts upon my luggage, on 
the floor where all the luggage is strewn like a wreck at the bottom 
of the great deep ; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the property 
of " Monsieur a traveller unknown ; " pays certain francs for it, to 
a certain functionary behind a Pigeon Hole, like a pay-box at a 
Theatre (the arrangements in general are on a wholesale scale, half 
military and half theatrical) ; and I suppose I shall find it when I 
come to Paris — he says I shall. I know nothing about it, except 
that I pay him his small fee, and pocket the ticket he gives me, 
and sit upon a counter, involved in the general distraction. 

Railway station. "Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. 
Plenty of time for Paris. Plenty of time ! " Large hall, long 
counter, long strips of dining-table, bottles of wine, plates of meat, 
roast chickens, little loaves of bread, basins of soup, little caraffes 
of brandy, cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from these 
resources, I begin to fly again. 

I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchant- 
ress and Sister Artist, by an ofiicer in uniform, with a waist like a 
wasp's, and pantaloons like two balloons. They all got into the 
next carriage together, accompanied by the two Mysteries. They 
laughed. I am alone in the carriage (for I don't consider Demented 
anybody) and alone in the world. 

Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields, 
fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. I wonder where 
England is, and when I was there last — about two years ago, I 
should say. Flying in and out among these trenches and batteries, 
skimming the clattering drawbridges, looking down into the stag- 
nant ditches, I become a prisoner of state, escaping. I am con- 
fined with a comrade in a fortress. Our room is in an upper story. 
We have tried to get up the chimney, but there's an iron grating 
across it, imbedded in the masonry. After months of labour, we 
have worked the grating loose with the poker, and can lift it up. 
We have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and blankets into 
ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, hook our ropes to the 
top, descend hand over hand upon the roof of the guard-house far 
below, shake the hook loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinel's 
pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it, creep 
into the shelter of the wood. The time is come — a wild and 
stormy night. We are up the chimney, we are on the guard-house 
roof, we are swimming in the murky ditch, when lo ! "Qui v'lk?" 
a bugle, the alarm, a crash ! What is it ? Death ? No, Amiens. 

More fortifications, more soldiering and drumming, more basins 
of soup, more little loaves of bread, more bottles of wine, more 



140 REPRINTED PIECES. 

carafFes of brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good, 
and everything ready. Bright, unsubstantial-looking, scenic sort of 
station. People waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches, 
some sabots, plenty of neat women, and a few old-visaged children. 
Unless it be a delusion born of my giddy flight, the grown-up 
people and the children seem to change places in France. In gen- 
eral, the boys and girls are little old men and women, and the men 
and women lively boys and girls. 

Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into 
my carriage. Says the manner of refreshing is "not bad," but 
considers it French. Admits great dexterity and politeness in the 
attendants. Thinks a decimal currency may have something to do 
with their despatch in settling accounts, and don't know but what 
it's sensible and convenient. Adds, however, as a general protest, 
that they're a revolutionary people — and always at it. 

Kamparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, 
open country, river, earthenware manufactures, Creil. Again ten 
minutes. Not even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawing- 
room with a verandah : like a planter's house. Monied Interest 
considers it a band-box, and not made to last. Little round tables 
in it, at one of which the Sister Artists and attendant Mysteries 
are established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they were going to 
stay a week. 

Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flying again, and 
lazily wondering as I fly. What has the South Eastern done with 
all the horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the 
Diligence ? What have they done with all the summer dust, with 
all the winter mud, with all the dreary avenues of little trees, with 
all the ramshackle postyards, with all the beggars (who used to turn 
out at night with bits of lighted candle, to look in at the coach win- 
dows), with all the long-tailed horses who were always biting one 
another, with all the big postilions in jack-boots — with all the 
mouldy cafds that we used to stop at, where a long mildewed table- 
cloth, set forth with jovial bottles of vinegar and oil, and with a 
Siamese arrangement of pepper and salt, was never wanting? 
Where are the grass-grown little towns, the wonderful little market- 
places all unconscious of markets, the shops that nobody kept, the 
streets that nobody trod, the churches that nobody went to, the 
bells that nobody rang, the tumble-down old buildings plastered 
with many-colored bills that nobody read 1 Where are the two- 
and-twenty weary hours of long long day and night journey, sure 
to be either insupportably hot or insupportably cold ? Where are 
the pains in my bones, where are the fidgets in my legs, where is 
the Frenchman with the nightcap who never would have the little 



A FLIGHT. 141 

coup^-window down, and who always fell upon me when he went 
to sleep, and always slept all night snoring onions ? 

A voice breaks in with " Paris ! Here we are ! " 

I have overflown myself, perhaps, but I can't believe it. I feel 
as if I were enchanted or bewitched. It is barely eight o'clock 
yet — it is nothing like half-past — when I have had my luggage 
examined at that briskest of Custom-houses attached to the station, 
and am rattling over the pavement in a hackney-cabriolet. 

Surely, not the pavement of Paris 1 Yes, I think it is, too. I 
don't know any other place where there are all these high houses, 
all these haggard-looking wine shops, all these billiard tables, all 
these stocking-makers with flat red or yellow legs of wood for sign- 
board, all these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted outside, 
and real billets sawing in the gutter, all these dirty corners of 
streets, all these cabinet pictures over dark doorways representing 
discreet matrons nursing babies. And yet this morning — I'll 
think of it in a warm-bath. 

Very like a small room that I remember in the Chinese baths 
upon the Boulevard, certainly; and, though I see it through the 
steam, I think that I might swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket, 
like a large wicker hour-glass. When can it have been that I left 
home? When was it that I paid "through to Paris" at London 
Bridge, and discharged myself of all responsibility, except the pres- 
ervation of a voucher ruled into three divisions, of which the first 
was snipped oft' at Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the 
third taken at my journey's end 1 It seems to have been ages ago. 
Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk. 

The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies, 
the elegance, variety, and beauty of their decorations, the number 
of the theatres, the brilliant cafds with their windows thrown up 
high and their vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement, 
the light and glitter of the houses turned as it were inside out, 
soon convince me that it is no dream ; that I am in Paris, howso- 
ever I got here. I stroll down to the sparkling Palais Royal, up 
the Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendume. As I glance into a 
print-shop window, Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, 
comes upon me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain. 
" Here's a people ! " he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window 
and Napoleon on the column. " Only one idea all over Paris ! A 
monomania ! " Humph ! I think I have seen Napoleon's match 1 
There was a statue, when I came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and 
another in the City, and a print or two in the shops. 

I walk up to the Barri^re de I'Etoile, sufficiently dazed by my 
flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about 



142 REPRINTED PIECES. 

me; of the lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing 
dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives of shining lamps : 
the hundred and one enclosures, where the singing is, in gleaming 
orchestras of azure and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri comes 
round with a box for voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my hotel, 
enchanted ; sup, enchanted ; go to bed, enchanted ; pushing back 
this morning (if it really were this morning) into the remoteness of 
time, blessing the South Eastern Company for realising the Ara- 
bian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I wing my idle 
flight into the land of dreams, " No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, 
going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done, that there 
really is no hurry ! " 



Household Words, Vol. 4, No. 81, Oct. 11, 1851. 
OUR SCHOOL. 

We went to look at it, only this last Midsummer, and found 
that the Railway had cut it up root and branch. A great trunk- 
line had swallowed the playground, sliced away the schoolroom, 
and pared off the corner of the house : which, thus curtailed of its 
proportions, presented itself, in a green stage of stucco, profilewise 
towards the road, like a forlorn flat-iron without a handle, stand- 
ing on end. 

It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. 
We have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-School, which we 
have sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to 
make a new street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely 
amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer's shop. We know 
that you went up steps to it; that you frequently grazed your 
knees in doing so ; that you generally got your leg over the scraper, 
in trying to scrape the mud off a very unsteady little shoe. The 
mistress of the Establishment holds no place in our memory ; but, 
rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal entry long and nar- 
row, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity towards us, who 
triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful Pug, a certain 
radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the 
ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and 
the insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live 
and flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him 
with a fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and 
his name Fidele. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting 
a back-parlour, whose life appears to us to have been consumed in 



OUR SCHOOL. 143 

sniflBng, and in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he 
would sit up and balance cake upon his nose, and not eat it until 
twenty had been counted. To the best of our belief we were once 
called in to witness this performance ; when, unable, even in his 
milder moments, to endure our presence, he instantly made at us, 
cake and all. 

Why a something in mourning, called "Miss Frost," should 
still connect itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to 
say. We retain no impression of the beauty of Miss Frost — if 
she were beautiful ; or of the mental fascinations of Miss Frost — 
if she were accomplished ; yet her name and her black dress hold 
an enduring place in our remembrance. An equally impersonal 
boy, whose name has long since shaped itself unalterably into 
"Master Mawls," is not to be dislodged from our brain. Retain- 
ing no vindictive feeling towards Mawls — no feeling whatever, 
indeed — we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss 
Frost. Our first impression of Death and Burial is associated 
with this formless pair. We all three nestled awfully in a corner 
one wintry day, when the wind was blowing shrill, with Miss 
Frost's pinafore over our heads ; and Miss Frost told us in a whis- 
per about somebody being " screwed down." It is the only distinct 
recollection we preserve of these impalpable creatures, except a 
suspicion that the manners of Master Mawls were susceptible of 
much improvement. Generally speaking, we may observe that 
whenever we see a child intently occupied with its nose, to the 
exclusion of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts, in 
a flash, to Master Mawls. 

But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came 
and overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old 
enough to be put into Virgil when we went there, and to get 
Prizes for a variety of polishing on which the rust has long accu- 
mulated. It was a School of some celebrity in its neighbourhood 
— nobody could have said why — and we had the honour to attain 
and hold the eminent position of first boy. The master was sup- 
posed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was 
supposed to know everything. We are still inclined to think the 
first-named supposition perfectly correct. 

We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather 
trade, and had bought us — meaning Our School — of another 
proprietor who was immensely learned. Whether this belief had 
any real foundation, we are not likely ever to knov/ now. The 
only branches of education with which he showed the least acquaint- 
ance, were, ruling and corporally punishing. He was always rul- 
ing ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or smiting the 



144 REPRINTED PIECES. 

palms of ofl'enders with the same diabolical instrument, or viciously 
drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large hands, and 
caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt whatever 
that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence. 

A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, 
of course, derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggle- 
eyed boy, with a big head and half-crowns without end, who sud- 
denly appeared as a parlour-boarder, and was rumoured to have 
come by sea from some mysterious part of the earth where his par- 
ents rolled in gold. He was usually called "Mr." by the Chief, 
and was said to feed in the parlour on steaks and gravy ; likewise 
to drink currant wine. And he openly stated that if rolls and 
coffee were ever denied him at breakfast, he would write home to 
that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and cause 
himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no 
form or class, but learnt alone, as little as he liked — and he liked 
very little — and there Avas a belief among us that this was because 
he was too wealthy to be "taken down." His special treatment, 
and our vague association of him with the sea, and with storms, and 
sharks, and Coral Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to be circu- 
lated as his history. A tragedy in blank verse was written on the 
subject — if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that 
now chronicles these recollections — in which his father figured as 
Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities : first 
imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth 
was stored, and from which his only son's half-crowns now issued. 
Dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented as "yet unborn" 
when his brave father met his fate ; and the despair and grief of 
Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth 
as having weakened the parlour-boarder's mind. This production 
was received with great favour, and was twice performed with 
closed doors in the dining-room. But, it got wind, and was seized 
as libellous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. 
Some two years afterwards, all of a sudden one day, Dumbledon 
vanished. It was whispered that the Chief himself had taken 
him down to the Docks, and reshipped him for the Spanish Main ; 
but nothing certain was ever known about his disappearance. At 
this hour, we cannot thoroughly disconnect him from California. 

Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There 
was another — a heavy young man, with a large double-cased sil- 
ver watch, and a fat knife the handle of which was a perfect tool- 
box — who unaccountably appeared one day at a special desk of 
his own, erected close to that of the Chief, with whom he held 
familiar converse. He lived in the parlour, and went out for his 



OUR SCHOOL. 145 

walks, and never took the least notice of us — even of us, the first 
boy — unless to give us a deprecatory kick, or grimly to take our 
hat off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors, 
which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed — 
not even condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us be- 
lieved that the classical attainments of this phenomenon were 
terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective, 
and he had come there to mend them ; others, that he was going 
to set up a school, and had paid the Chief "twenty-five pound 
down," for leave to see Our School at work. The gloomier spirits 
even said that he was going to buy us ; against which contingency, 
conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and running 
away. However, he never did that. After staying for a quarter, 
during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to 
do anything but make pens out of quills, write small hand in a 
secret portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his 
knife into his desk all over it, he too disappeared, and his place 
knew him no more. 

There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate com- 
plexion and rich curling hair, who, we found out, or thought we 
found out (we have no idea now, and probably had none then, on 
what grounds, but it was confidentially revealed from mouth to 
mouth), was the son of a Viscount who had deserted his lovely 
mother. It was understood that if he had his rights, he would be 
worth twenty thousand a year. And that if his mother ever met 
his father, she would shoot him with a silver pistol, which she 
carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was 
a very suggestive topic. So was a young Mulatto, who was always 
believed (though very amiable) to have a dagger about him some- 
where. But, we think they were both outshone, upon the whole, 
by another boy who claimed to have been born on the twenty- 
ninth of February, and to have only one birthday in five years. 
We suspect this to have been a fiction — but he lived upon it all 
the time he was at Our School. 

The principal currency of Our School was slate pencil. It had 
some inexplicable value, that was never ascertained, never reduced 
to a standard. To have a great hoard of it, was somehow to be 
rich. We used to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious 
boon upon our chosen friends. When the holidays were coming, 
contributions were solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in 
India, and who were appealed for under the generic name of "Holi- 
day-stoppers," — appropriate marks of remembrance that should 
enliven and cheer them in their homeless state. Personally, we 
always contributed these tokens of sympathy in the form of slate 



146 REPRINTED PIECES. 

pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure 
to them. 

Our School was remarkable for white mice. Red-polls, linnets, 
and even canaries, were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other 
strange refuges for birds ; but white mice were the favourite stock. 
The boys trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the 
boys. We recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a 
Latin dictionary, who ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shoul- 
dered muskets, turned wheels, and even made a very creditable 
appearance on the stage as the Dog of Montargis. He might have 
achieved greater things, but for having the misfortune to mistake 
his way in a triumphal procession to the Capitol, when he fell into 
a deep inkstand, and was dyed black and drowned. The mice were 
the occasion of some most ingenious engineering, in the construction 
of their houses and instruments of performance. The famous one 
belonged to a company of proprietors, some of whom have since 
made Railroads, Engines, and Telegraphs ; the chairman has erected 
mills and bridges in New Zealand. 

The usher at Our School, who was considered to know everything 
as opposed to the Chief, who was considered to know nothing, was 
a bony, gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man in rusty black. It 
was whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby's sisters 
(Maxby lived close by, and was a day pupil), and further that he 
" favoured Maxby." As we remember, he taught Italian to Maxby's 
sisters on half-holidays. He once went to the play with them, and 
wore a white waistcoat and a rose : which was considered among us 
equivalent to a declaration. We were of opinion on that occasion, 
that to the last moment he expected Maxby's father to ask him to 
dinner at five o'clock, and therefore neglected his own dinner at half- 
past one, and finally got none. We exaggerated in our imaginations 
the extent to which he punished Maxby's father's cold meat at sup- 
per ; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and 
water when he came home. But, we all liked him ; for he had a 
good knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better 
school if he had had more power. He was writing master, mathe- 
matical master, English master, made out the bills, mended the 
pens, and did all sorts of things. He divided the little boys with 
the Latin master (they were smuggled through their rudimentary 
books, at odd times when there was nothing else to do), and he 
always called at parents' houses to inquire after sick boys, because 
he had gentlemanly manners. He was rather musical, and on some 
remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone ; but a bit of it 
was lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he some- 
times tried to play it of an evening. His holidays never began (on 



OUR SCHOOL. 147 

account of the bills) until long after ours ; but, in the summer vaca- 
tions he used to take pedestrian excursions with a knapsack ; and at 
Christmas time, he went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who 
we all said (on no authority) was a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. Poor 
fellow ! He was very low all day on Maxby's sister's wedding-day, 
and afterwards was thought to favour Maxby more than ever, though 
he had been expected to spite him. He has been dead these twenty 
years. Poor fellow ! 

Our remembrance of Our School presents the Latin master as a 
colourless doubled-up near-sighted man with a crutch, who was always 
cold, and always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and 
always disclosing ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost 
always applying a ball of pocket-handkerchief to some part of his 
face with a screwing action round and round. He was a very good 
scholar, and took great pains where he saw intelligence and a de- 
sire to learn : otherwise, perhaps not. Our memory presents him 
(unless teased into a passion) with as little energy as colour — as 
having been worried and tormented into monotonous feebleness — 
as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in a Mill 
of boys. We remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry 
afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not 
when the footstep of the Chief fell heavy on the floor; how the 
Chief aroused him, in the midst of a dread silence, and said, " Mr. 
Blinkins, are you ill, sir?" how he blushingly replied, "Sir, rather 
so;" how the Chief retorted with severity, "Mr. Blinkins, this is 
no place to bs ill in " (which was very, very true), and walked back 
solemn as the ghost in Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he 
caned that boy for inattention, and happily expressed his feelings 
towards the Latin master through the medium of a substitute. 

There was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in a gig, 
and taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as an accom- 
plishment in great social demand in after life) ; and there was a 
brisk little French master who used to come in the sunniest weather, 
with a handleless umbrella, and to whom the Chief was always po- 
lite, because (as we believed), if the Chief offended him, he would 
instantly address the Chief in French, and for ever confound him 
before the boys with his inability to understand or reply. 

There was besides, a serving man, whose name was Phil. Our 
retrospective glance presents Phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast 
away upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice 
an ingenious inkling of many trades. He mended whatever was 
broken, and made whatever was wanted. He was general glazier, 
among other things, and mended all the broken windows — at the 
prime cost (as was darkly rumoured among us) of ninepence, for 



148 REPRINTED PIECES. 

every square charged three-and-six to parents. We had a high 
opinion of his mechanical genius, and generally held that the Chief 
"knew something bad of him," and on pain of divulgence enforced 
Phil to be his bondsman. We particularly remember that Phil had 
a sovereign contempt for learning : which engenders in us a respect 
for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation of the relative 
positions of the Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable man, 
who waited at table between whiles, and throughout "the half" 
kept the boxes in severe custody. He was morose, even to the 
Chief, and never smiled, except at breaking-up, when, in acknowl- 
edgment of the toast, "Success to Phil! Hooray!" he would 
slowly carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it would remain 
until we were all gone. Nevertheless, one time when we had the 
scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all the sick boys of his own 
accord, and was like a mother to them. 

There was another school not far off, and of course Our School 
could have nothing to say to that school. It is mostly the way 
with schools, whether of boys or men. Well ! the railway has 
swallowed up ours, and the locomotives now run smoothly over its 
ashes. 

So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies, 
All that this world is proud of, 

— and is not proud of, too. It had little reason to be proud of 
Our School, and has done much better since in that way, and will 
do far better yet. 



Household Words, No. 95, Vol. 4, Jan. 17, 1852. 

^A CURIOUS DANCE ROUND A CURIOUS TREE. 

On the 13th day of January, 1750 — when the corn that grew 
near Moorfields was ground on the top of Windmill Hill, " Fens- 
bury"; when Bethlehem Hospital was "a dry walk, for loiter- 
ers," and a show; when lunatics were chained, naked, in rows of 
cages that flanked a promenade, and were wondered and jeered at 
through iron bars by London loungers — Sir Thomas LadlDroke the 
banker, Bonnel Thornton the wit, and half-a-dozen other gentle- 
men, met together to found a new asylum for the insane. Towards 
this object they put down, before separating, one guinea each. In 
a year from that time the windmill had been given to the winds, 
and on its ancient site, there stood a hospital for the gratuitous 
treatment of the insane poor. 



A CURIOUS DANCE ROUND A CURIOUS TREE. 149 

With the benevolence which thus originated an additional mad- 
house, was mixed, as was usual in that age, a curious degree of 
unconscious cruelty. Coercion for the outward man, and rabid 
physicking for the inward man, were then the specifics for lunacy. 
Chains, straw, filthy solitude, darkness, and starvation ; jalap, 
syrup of buckthorn, tartarised antimony, and ipecacuanha admin- 
istered every spring and fall in fabulous doses to every patient, 
whether well or ill; spinning in Avhirligigs, corporal punishment, 
gagging, "continued intoxication "; nothing was too wildly extrav- 
agant, nothing too monstrously cruel to be prescribed by mad- 
doctors. It was their monomania; and, under their influence, the 
directors of Lunatic Asylums acted. In other respects these physi- 
cians were grave men, of mild dispositions, and — in their ample- 
flapped, ample-cuffed coats, with a certain gravity and air of state 
in the skirts ; with their large buttons and gold-headed canes, 
their hair-powder and ruffles — were men of benevolent aspects. 
Imagine one of them turning back his lace and tightening his wig 
to supply a maniac who ivould keep his mouth shut, with food or 
physic. He employed a flat oval ring, with a handle to it. " The 
head being placed between the knees of the operator, the patient, 
blinded and properly secured, an opportunity is watched. When 
he opens his mouth to speak, the instrument is thrust in and 
allows the food or medicine to be introduced Avithout difficulty. A 
sternutatory of any kind " (say a pepper-caster of cayenne, or half 
an ounce of rappee) " always forces the mouth open, in spite of the 
patient's determination to keep it shut." "In cases of great fury 
and violence," says the amiable practitioner from whom I quote, 
" the patient should be kept in a dark room, confined by one leg, 
with metallic manacles on the wrist; the skin being less liable to 
be injured," — here the Good Doctor becomes especially considerate 
and mild, — the skin being less liable to be injured by the friction 
of polished metal than by that of linen or cotton." 

These practitioners of old would seem to have been, without 
knowing it, early homoeopathists ; their motto must have been, 
Similia similihus curantur ; they believed that the most violent 
and certain means of driving a man mad, were the only hopeful 
means of restoring him to reason. The inside of the new hospital, 
therefore, even when, in 1782, it was removed, under the name of 
"Saint Luke's," from Windmill Hill to its present site in the Old 
Sti'eet Road, must have appeared, to the least irrational new 
patient, like a collection of chambers of horrors. What sane per- 
son indeed, seeing, on his entrance into any place, gyves and 
manacles (however highly polished) yawning for his ankles and 
wrists ; swings dangling in the air, to spin him round like an im- 



150 REPRINTED PIECES. 

paled cockchafer ; gags and strait-waistcoats ready at a moment's 
notice to muzzle and bind him ; would be likely to retain the per- 
fect command of his senses ? Even now, an outside view of Saint 
Luke's Hospital is gloomy enough ; and, when on that cold misty, 
cheerless afternoon which followed Christmas Day, I looked up at 
the high walls, and saw, grimly peering over them, its upper 
stories and dismal little iron-bound windows, I did not ring the 
porter's bell (albeit I was only a visitor and free to go, if I would, 
without ringing it at all) in the most cheerful frame of mind. 

How came I, it may be asked, on the day after Christmas Day, 
of all days in the year, to be hovering outside Saint Luke's, after 
dark, when I might have betaken myself to that jocund world of 
Pantomime, where there is no affliction or calamity that leaves the 
least impression ; where a man may tumble into the broken ice, 
or dive into the kitchen fire, and only be the droller for the acci- 
dent j where babies may be knocked about and sat upon, or choked 
with gravy spoons in the process of feeding, and yet no Coroner be 
wanted, nor anybody made uncomfortable; where workmen may 
fall from the top of a house to the bottom, or even from the bot- 
tom of a house to the top, and sustain no injury to the brain, need 
no hospital, leave no young children ; where every one, in short, 
is so superior to all the accidents of life, though encountering them 
at every turn, that I suspect this to be the secret (though many 
persons may not present it to themselves) of the general enjoyment 
which an audience of vulnerable spectators, liable to pain and sor- 
row, find in this class of entertainment. 

Not long before the Christmas Night in question, I had been 
told of a patient in Saint Luke's, a woman of great strength and 
energy, who had been driven mad by an infuriated ox in the streets 
— an inconvenience not in itself worth mentioning, for which the 
inhabitants of London are frequently indebted to their inestimable 
Corporation. She seized the creature literally by the horns, and 
so, as long as limb and life were in peril, vigorously held him ; 
but, the danger over, she lost her senses, and became one of the 
most ungovernable of the inmates of the asylum. Why was I 
there to see this poor creature, when I might have seen a Panto- 
mimic woman gored to any extent by a Pantomimic ox, at any height 
of ferocity, and have gone home to bed with the comforting assur- 
ance that she had rather enjoyed it than otherwise 1 

The reason of my choice was this. I had received a notification 
that on that night there would be, in Saint Luke's, " a Christmas 
Tree for the Patients." And further, that the usual "fortnightly 
dancing " would take place before the distribution of the gifts upon 
the tree. So there I was, in the street, looking about for a knocker 
and finding none. 



A CURIOUS DANCE ROUND A CURIOUS TREE. 151 

There was a line of hackney cabriolets by the dead wall ; some 
of the drivers, asleep ; some, vigilant ; some, with their legs not 
inexpressive of " Boxing," sticking out of the open doors of their 
vehicles, while their bodies were reposing on the straw within. 
There were flaming gas-lights, oranges, oysters, paper lanterns, 
butchers and grocers, bakers and public-houses, over the way ; 
there were omnibuses rattling by ; there were ballad-singers, street 
cries, street passengers, street beggars, and street music ; there were 
cheap theatres within call, which you would do better to be at 
some pains to improve, my worthy friends, than to shut up — for, 
if you will not have them with your own consent at their best, you 
may be sure that you must have them, without it, at their worst ; 
there were wretched little chapels too, where the ofliciating prophets 
certainly were not inspired with grammar ; there were homes, great 
and small, by the hundred thousand, east, west, north and south ; 
all the busy ripple of sane life (or of life, as sane as it ever is) 
came murmuring on from far away, and broke against the blank 
walls of the Madhouse, like a sea upon a desert shore. 

Abandoning further search for the non-existent knocker, I dis- 
covered and rang the bell, and gained admission into Saint Luke's 

— through a stone courtyard and a hall, adorned with wreaths of 
holly and like seasonable garniture. I felt disposed to wonder how 
it looked to patients when they were first received, and whether 
they distorted it to their own wild fancies, or left it a matter of 
fact. But, as there was time for a walk through the building 
before the festivities began, I discarded idle speculation and fol- 
lowed my leader. 

Into a long, long gallery : on one side, a few windows ; on the 
other, a great many doors leading to sleeping cells. Dead silence 

— not utter solitude ; for, outside the iron cage enclosing the fire- 
place between two of the windows, stood a motionless woman. 
The fire cast a red glare upon the walls, upon the ceiling, and upon 
the floor, polished by the daily friction of many feet. At the end 
of the gallery, the common sitting-room. Seated on benches around 
another caged fireplace, several women : all silent, except one. 
She, sewing a mad sort of seam, and scolding some imaginary 
person. 

(Taciturnity is a symptom of nearly every kind of mania, unless 
under pressure of excitement. Although the whole lives of some 
patients are passed together in the same apartment, they are 
passed in solitude ; there is no solitude more complete.) Forms 
and tables, the only furniture. Nothing in the rooms to remind 
their inmates of the world outside. No domestic articles to occupy, 
to interest, or to entice the mind away from its malady. Utter 



152 REPRINTED PIECES. 

vacuity. Except the scolding woman sewing a purposeless seam, 
every patient in the room either silently looking at the fire, or 
silently looking on the ground — or rather through the ground, and 
at Heaven knows what, beyond. 

It was a relief to come to a work-room ; with coloured prints 
over the mantel-shelf, and china shepherdesses upon it ; furnished 
also with tables, a carpet, stuffed chairs, and an open fire. I ob- 
served a great difference between the demeanour of the occupants 
of this apartment and that of the inmates of the other room. 
They were neither so listless nor so sad. Although they did not, 
while I was present, speak much, they worked with earnestness 
and diligence. A few noticed my going away, and returned my 
parting salutation. In a niche — not in a room — but at one end 
of a cheerless gallery — stood a pianoforte, with a few ragged 
music-leaves upon the desk. Of course, the music was turned 
upside down. 

Several such galleries on the " female side " ; all exactly alike. 
One, set apart for "boarders" who are incurable; and, towards 
whose maintenance their friends are required to pay a small weekly 
sum. The experience of this asylum did not differ, I found, from 
that of similar establishments, in proving that insanity is more 
prevalent among women than among men. Of the eighteen thou- 
sand seven hundred and fifty-nine inmates Saint Luke's Hospital 
has received in the century of its existence, eleven thousand one 
hundred and sixty-two have been women, and seven thousand five 
hundred and eighty-seven men. Female servants are, as is well 
known, more frequently afflicted with lunacy than any other class 
of persons. The table, published in the Directors' Report, of the 
condition in life of the one hundred and seven female inmates ad- 
mitted in 1850, sets forth that while, under the vague description 
of " wife of labourer " there were only nine admissions, and under 
the equally indefinite term " housekeeper," no more than six ; 
there were of women servants, twenty-four. 

I passed into one of the galleries on the male side. Three men, 
engaged at a game of bagatelle ; another patient kneeling against 
the wall apparently in deep prayer ; two, walking rapidly up and 
down the long gallery arm-in-arm, but, as usual, without speaking 
together ; a handsome young man deriving intense gratification from 
the motion of his fingers as he played with them in the air ; two 
men standing like pillars before the fire-cage; one man, with a 
newspaper under his arm, walking with great rapidity from one 
end of the corridor to the other, as if engaged in some important 
mission which admitted of not a moment's delay. The only fur- 
niture in the common sitting-room not peculiar to a prison or a 



A CURIOUS DANCE ROUND A CURIOUS TREE, 153 

lunatic asylum of the old school, was a newspaper, which was being 
read by a demented publican. The same oppressive silence — ex- 
cept when the publican complained, in tones of the bitterest satire, 
against one of the keepers, or (said the publican) "attendant, as 
I suppose I must call him." The same listless vacuity here, as 
in the room occupied by the female patients. Despite the large 
.amount of cures effected in the hospital (upwards of sixty-nine 
per cent during the past year), testifying to the general efficacy 
of the treatment pursued in it, I think that, if the system of find- 
ing the inmates employment, so successful in other hospitals, were 
introduced into Saint Luke's, the proportion of cures would be 
much greater. Appended to the latest report of the charity is a 
table of the weights of the new-comers, compared with the weights 
of the same individuals when discharged. From this, it appears 
that their inactivity occasions a rapid accumulation of flesh. Of 
thirty patients, whose average residence in the hospital extended 
over eleven weeks, twenty-nine had gained at the average rate of 
more than one pound per week, each. This can hardly be a gain 
of health. 

On the walls of some of the sleeping cells were the marks of 
what looked like small alcoves, that had been removed. These 
indicated the places to which the chairs, which patients were made 
to sit in for indefinite periods, were, in the good old times, nailed. 
A couple of these chairs have been preserved in a lumber-room, 
and are hideous curiosities indeed. As high as the seat, are boxes 
to enclose the legs, which used to be shut in with spring bolts. 
The thighs were locked down by a strong cross-board, which also 
served as a table. The back of this cramping prison is so con- 
structed that the victim could only use his arms and hands in a 
forward direction ; not backward or sideways. 

Each sleeping cell has two articles of furniture — a bed and a 
stool; the latter serving instead of a wardrobe. Many of the 
patients sleep in single-bedded rooms; but the larger cells are 
occupied by four inmates. The bedding is comfortable, and the 
clothing ample. On one bed-place the clothes were folded up, and 
the bedding had been removed. In its stead, was a small bundle, 
made up of a pair of boots, a waistcoat, and some stockings. 
^^That poor fellow," said my conductor, "died last night — in 
a fit." 

As I was looking at the marks in the walls of the galleries, of 
the posts to which the patients were formerly chained, sounds of 
music were heard from a distance. The ball had begun, and we 
hurried off in the direction of the music. 

It was playing in another gallery — a brown sombre place, not 



154 REPRINTED PIECES. 

brilliantly illuminated by a light, at either end, adorned with holly. 
The staircase by which this gallery was approached, was curtained 
off at the top, and near the curtain the musicians were cheerfully 
engaged in getting all the vivacity that could be got, out of their 
two instruments. At one end were a number of mad men, at the 
other, a number of mad women, seated on forms. Two or three 
sets of quadrille dancers were arranged down the centre, and the 
ball was proceeding with great spirit, but with great decorum. 

There were the patients usually to be found in all such asylums, 
among the dancers. There was the brisk, vain pippin-faced little 
old lady, in a fantastic cap — proud of her foot and ankle ; there 
was the old-young woman, with the dishevelled long light hair, 
spare figure, and weird gentility ; there was the vacantly laughing 
girl, requiring now and then a warning finger to admonish her; 
there was the quiet young woman, almost well, and soon going 
out. For partners, there were the sturdy, bull-necked, thick-set, 
little fellow who had tried to get away last week ; the wry-faced 
tailor, formerly suicidal, but much improved ; the suspicious patient 
with a countenance of gloom, wandering round and round strangers, 
furtively eyeing them behind from head to foot, and not indisposed 
to resent their intrusion. There was the man of happy silliness, 
pleased with everything. But the only chain that made any clatter 
was Ladies' Chain, and there was no straiter waistcoat in company 
than tlie polka -garment of the old-young woman with the weird 
gentility, which was of a faded black satin, and languished through 
the dance with a love-lorn affability and condescension to the force 
of circumstances, in itself a faint reflection of all Bedlam. 

Among those seated on the forms, the usual loss of social habits 
and the usual solitude in society, were again to be observed. It 
was very remarkable to see how they huddled together without 
communicating ; how some watched the dancing with lack-lustre 
eyes, scarcely seeming to know what they watched ; how others 
rested weary heads on hands, and moped ; how others had the air 
of eternally expecting some miraculous visitor who never came, 
and looking out for some deliverances that never happened. The 
last figure of the set danced out, the women-dancers instantly 
returned to their station at one end of the gallery, the men-dancers 
repaired to their station at the other ; and all were shut up within 
themselves in a moment. 

The dancers were not all patients. Among them, and dancing 
with right good will, were attendants, male and female — pleasant 
looking men, not at all realising the conventional idea of " keepers " 
— and pretty women, gracefully though not at all inappropriately 
dressed, and with looks and smiles as sparkling as one might hope to 



A CURIOUS DANCE ROUND A CURIOUS TREE. 155 

see in any dance in any place. Also, there were sundry bright young 
ladies who had helped to make the Christmas Tree ; and a few 
members of the resident-officer's family ; and, shining above them 
all, and shining everywhere, his wife ; whose clear head and strong 
heart Heaven inspired to have no Christmas wish beyond this 
place, but to look upon it as her home, and on its inmates as her 
afflicted children. And may I see as seasonable a sight as that 
gentle Christian lady every Christmas that I live, and leave its 
counterpart in as fair a form in many a nook and corner in the 
world, to shine, like a star in a dark spot, through all the 
Christmases to come ! 

The tree was in a bye room by itself, not lighted yet, but 
presently to be displayed in all its glory. The porter of the 
Institution, a brisk young fellow with no end of dancing in him, 
now proclaimed a song. The announcement being received with 
loud applause, one of the dancing sisterhood of attendants sang 
the song, which the musicians accompanied. It was very pretty, 
and we all applauded to the echo, and seemed (the mad part of 
us, I mean) to like our share in the applause prodigiously, and to 
take it as a capital point, that we were led by the popular porter. 
It was so great a success that we very soon called for another song 
and then we danced a country dance (Porter perpetually going 
down the middle and up again with Weird-gentility), until the 
quaint pictures of the Founders, hanging in the adjacent committee- 
chamber, might have trembled in their frames. 

The moment the dance was over, away the porter ran, not in 
the least out of breath, to help light up the tree. Presently it 
stood in the centre of its room, growing out of the floor, a blaze of 
light and glitter ; blossoming in that place (as the story goes of 
the American aloe) for the first time in a hundred years. shades 
of mad Doctors with laced ruffles and powdered wigs, shades of 
patients who went mad in the only good old times to be mad or sane 
in, and who were therefore physicked, whirligigged, chained, hand- 
cuffed, beaten, cramped, and tortured, look from 

Wherever in your sightless substance 
You wait . . . 

on this outlandish weed in the degenerate garden of Saint Luke's ! 
To one coming freshly from outer life, unused to such scenes, it 
was a very sad and touching spectacle, when the patients were 
admitted in a line, to pass round the lighted tree, and admire. I 
could not but remember with what happy, hopefully flushed faces, 
the brilliant toy was associated in my usual knowledge of it, and 



156 REPRINTED PIECES. 

compare them with the worn cheek, the listless stare, the dull eye 
raised for a moment and then confusedly dropped, the restless 
eagerness, the moody surprise, so different from the sweet expect- 
ancy and astonishment of children, that came in melancholy array 
before me. And when the sorrowful procession was closed by 
" Tommy," the favourite of the house, the harmless old man, with 
a giggle and a chuckle and a nod for every one, I think I would 
have rather that Tommy had charged at the tree like a Bull, 
than that Tommy had been, at once so childish and so dreadfully 
un-childlike. 

We all went out into the gallery again after this survey, and 
the dazzling fruits of the tree were taken from their boughs, and 
distributed. The porter, an undeveloped genius in stage manage- 
ment and mastership of ceremonies, was very active in the distribu- 
tion, blew all the whistles, played all the trumpets, and nursed all 
the dolls. That done, we had a wonderful concluding dance, com- 
pounded of a country dance and galopade, during which all the popular 
couples were honoured with a general clapping of hands, as they 
galoped down the middle ; and the porter in particular was over- 
whelmed with plaudits. Finally we had God Save the Queen, 
with the whole force of the company ; solo parts by the female 
attendant with the pretty voice who had sung before ; chorus led, 
with loyal animation, by the porter. When I came away, the 
porter, surrounded by bearers of trays and busy in the midst of the 
forms, was delivering out mugs and cake, like a banker dealing at 
a colossal round game. I dare say he was asleep before I got home ; 
but I left him in that stage of social briskness which is usually 
described among people who are at large as "beginning to spend 
the evening." 

Now, there is doubtless a great deal that is mournfully aifecting 
in such a sight. I close this little record of my visit with the 
statement that the fact is so, because I am not sure but that many 
people expect far too much. I have known some, after visiting 
the noblest of our Institutions for this terrible calamity, express 
their disappointment at the many deplorable cases they had ob- 
served with pain, and hint that, after all, the better system could 
do little. Something of what it can do, and daily does, has been 
faintly shadowed forth, even in this paper. Wonderful things 
have been done for the Blind, and for the Deaf and Dumb ; but, 
the utmost is necessarily far inferior to the restoration of the senses 
of which they are deprived. To lighten the affliction of insanity 
by all human means, is not to restore the greatest of the Divine 
gifts ; and those who devote themselves to the task do not pretend 
that it is. They find their sustainment and reward in the sub- 



A PLATED ARTICLE. 157 

stitution of humanity for brutality, kindness for maltreatment, 
peace for raging fury ; in the acquisition of love instead of hatred ; 
and in the knowledge, that, from such treatment, improvement, 
and hope of final restoration will come, if such hope be possible. 
It may be little to have abolished from madhouses all that is 
abolished, and to have substituted all that is substituted. Never- 
theless, reader, if you can do a little in any good direction — do 
it. It will be much, some day. 



Household Words, Vol. 5, No. 109, April 24, 1852, 
A PLATED ARTICLE. 

Putting up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of Staf- 
fordshire, I find it to be by no means a lively town. In fact is as 
dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see. It seems 
as if its whole population might be imprisoned in its Railway Sta- 
tion. The Refreshment-Room at that Station is a vortex of dissi- 
pation compared with the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the dull 
High Street. 

AVhy High Street 1 Why not rather Low Street, Flat Street, 
Low-Spirited Street, Used-up Street 1 Where are the people who 
belong to the High Street ? Can they all be dispersed over the face 
of the country, seeking the unfortunate Strolling Manager who de- 
camped from the mouldy little Theatre last week, in the beginning 
of his season (as his play-bills testify), repentantly resolved to bring 
him back, and feed him, and be entertained ? Or, can they all be 
gathered to their fathers in the two old churchyards near to the High 
Street — retirement into which churchyards appears to be a mere 
ceremony, there is so very little life outside their confines, and such 
small discernible diff'erence between being buried alive in the town, 
and buried dead in the town tombs 1 Over the way, opposite to the 
staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little ironmonger's 
shop, a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the Fashions in the small 
window and a baildy-legged baby on the pavement staring at it) — 
a watchmaker's shop, where all the clocks and watches must be 
stopped, I am sure, for they could never have the courage to go, with 
the town in general, and the Dodo in particular, looking at them. 
Shade of Miss Linwood, erst of Leicester Square, London, thou art 
welcome here, and thy retreat is fitly chosen ! I myself was one of 
the last visitors to that awful storehouse of thy life's work, wdiere 
an anchorite old man and woman took my shilling with a solemn 



158 REPRINTED PIECES. 

wonder, and conducting me to a gloomy sepulchre of needlework 
dropping to pieces with dust and age and shrouded in twilight at 
high noon, left me there, chilled, frightened, and alone. And now, 
in ghostly letters on all the dead walls of this dead town, I read 
thy honoured name, and find that thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin 
Wool, invites inspection as a powerful excitement ! 

Where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this 
feast of little wool? Where are they? Who are they? They 
are not the bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's 
window. They are not the two earthy ploughmen lounging outside 
the saddler's shop, in the stiff square where the Town Hall stands, 
like a brick and mortar private on parade. They are not the land- 
lady of the Dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it and 
no welcome, when I asked for dinner. They are not the turnkeys 
of the Town Jail, looking out of the gateway in their uniforms, as 
if they had locked up all the balance (as my American friends would 
say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little. They are not 
the two dusty millers in the white mill down by the river, where 
the great water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like the mo- 
notonous days and nights in this forgotten place. Then who are 
they, for there is no one else? No; this deponent maketh oath 
and saith that there is no one else, save and except the waiter at the 
Dodo, now laying the cloth. I have paced the streets, and stared 
at the houses, and am come back to the blank bow window of the 
Dodo ; and the town clocks strike seven, and the reluctant echoes 
seem to cry, "Don't wake us ! " and the bandy-legged baby has 
gone home to bed. 

If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird — if he had only some 
confused idea of making a comfortable nest — I could hope to get 
through the hours between this and bed-time, without being con- 
sumed by devouring melancholy. But, the Dodo's habits are all 
wrong. It provides me with a trackless desert of sitting-room, 
with a chair for every day in the year, a table for every month, and 
a waste of sideboard where a lonely China vase pines in a corner for 
its mate long departed, and will never make a match with the 
candlestick in the opposite corner if it live till Doomsday. The 
Dodo has nothing in the larder. Even now, I behold the Boots 
returning with my sole in a piece of paper ; and with that portion 
of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the blank bow window, 
slaps his leg as he comes across the road, pretending it is something 
else. The Dodo excludes the outer air. When I mount up to 
my bed-room, a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose 
like sleepy snuff". The loose little bits of carpet writhe under 
my tread, and take wormy shapes. I don't know the ridiculous 



A PLATED ARTICLE. 159 

man in the looking-glass, beyond having met him once or twice in 
a dish-cover — and I can never shave him to-morrow morning! 
The Dodo is narrow-minded as to towels ; expects me to wash on a 
freemason's apron without the trimming : when I asked for soap, 
gives me a stony-hearted something white, with no more lather in 
it than the Elgin marbles. The Dodo has seen better days, and 
possesses interminable stables at the back — silent, grass-grown, 
broken-windowed, horseless. 

This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. 
Can cook a steak, too, which is more, I wonder where it gets its 
Sherry ? If I were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist 
to be analysed, what would it turn out to be made of? It tastes 
of pepper, sugar, bitter-almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat 
drinks, and a little brandy. Would it unman a Spanish exile by 
reminding him of his native land at all ? I think not. If there 
really be any townspeople out of the churchyards, and if a caravan 
of them ever do dine, with a bottle of wine j^er man, in this desert 
of the Dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day ! 

Where was the waiter born ? How did he come here ? Has he 
any hope of getting away from here? Does he ever receive a 
letter, or take a ride upon the railway, or see anything but the 
Dodo?" Perhaps he has seen the Berlin Wool. He appears to 
have a silent sorrow on him, and it may be that. He clears the 
table ; draws the dingy curtains of the great bow window, which 
so unwillingly consent to meet, that they must be pinned together ; 
leaves me by the fire with my pint decanter, and a little thin 
funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a plate of pale biscuits — in them- 
selves engendering desperation. 

No book, no newspaper ! I left the Arabian Nights in the rail- 
way carriage, and have nothing to read but Bradshaw, and " that 
w^ay madness lies." Remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked 
mariners have done to exercise their minds in solitude, I repeat the 
multiplication table, the pence table, and the shilling table : which 
are all the tables I happen to know. What if I write something ? 
The Dodo keeps no pens but steel pens ; and those I always stick 
through the paper, and can turn to no other account. 

What am I to do ? Even if I could have the bandy-legged baby 
knocked up and brought here, I could offer him nothing but Sherry, 
and that would be the death of him. He would never hold up his 
head again if he touched it. I can't go to bed, because I have 
conceived a mortal hatred for my bedroom ; and I can't go away, 
because there is no train for my place of destination until morning. 
To burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting joy ; still it is a tem- 
porary relief, and here they go on the fire ! Shall I break the 



160 REPRINTED PIECES. 

plate? First let me look at the back, and see who made it. 

COPELAND. 

Copeland ! Stop a moment. Was it yesterday I visited Cope- 
land's works, and saw them making plates ? In the confusion of 
travelling about, it might be yesterday or it might be yesterday 
month ; but I think it was yesterday. I appeal to the plate. 
The plate says, decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate, as I look 
at it, growing into a companion. 

Don't you remember (says the plate) how you steamed away, 
yesterday morning, in the bright sun and the east wind, along the 
valley of the sparkling Trent ? Don't you recollect how many 
kilns you flew past, looking like the bowls of gigantic tobacco pipes, 
cut short off" from the stem and turned upside down? And the 
fires — and the smoke — and the roads made with bits of crockery, 
as if all the plates and dishes in the civilised world had been 
Macadamised, expressly for the laming of all the horses? Of 
course I do ! 

And don't you remember (says the plate) how you alighted at 
Stoke — a picturesque heap of houses, kilns, smoke, wharfs, canals, 
and river, lying (as was most appropriate) in a basin — and how, 
after climbing up the sides of the basin to look at the prospect, you 
trundled down again at a walking-match pace, and straight pro- 
ceeded to my father's, Copeland's, where the whole of my family, 
high and low, rich and poor, are turned out upon the world from 
our nursery and seminary, covering some fourteen acres of ground ? 
And don't you remember what we spring from : — heaps of lumps 
of clay, partially prepared and cleaned in Devonshire and Dorset- 
shire, whence said clay principally comes — and hills of flint, with- 
out which we should want our ringing sound, and should never be 
musical? And as to the flint, don't you recollect that it is first 
burnt in kilns, and is then laid under the four iron feet of a demon 
slave, subject to violent stamping fits, who, when they come on, 
stamps away insanely with his four iron legs, and would crush all 
the flint in the Isle of Thanet to powder, without leaving off? 
And as to the clay, don't you recollect how it is put into mills or 
teazers, and is sliced, and dug, and cut at, by endless knives, 
clogged and sticky, but persistent — and is pressed out of that 
machine through a square trough, whose form it takes — and is 
cut off in square lumps and thrown into a vat, and there mixed 
with water, and beaten to a pulp by paddle-wheels — and is then 
run into a rough house, all rugged beams and ladders splashed with 
white, — superintended by Grindoff the Miller in his working 
clothes, all splashed with white, — where it passes through no end 
of machinery-moved sieves all splashed with white, arranged in an 



A PLATED ARTICLE. 161 

ascending scale of fineness (some so fine, that three hundred silk 
threads cross each other in a single square inch of their surface), 
and all in a violent state of ague with their teeth for ever chatter- 
ing, and their bodies for ever shivering? And as to the flint again, 
isn't it mashed and mollified and troubled and soothed, exactly as 
rags are in a paper-mill, until it is reduced to a pap so fine that it 
contains no atom of "grit" perceptible to the nicest taste? And 
as to the flint and the clay together, are they not, after all this, 
mixed in the proportion of five of clay to one of flint, and isn't the 
compound — known as "slip" — run into oblong troughs, where 
its superfluous moisture may evaporate ; and finally, isn't it slapped 
and banged and beaten and patted and kneaded and wedged and 
knocked about like butter, until it becomes a beautiful grey dough, 
ready for the potter's use ? 

In regard of the potter, popularly so called (says the plate), you 
don't mean to say you have forgotten that a workman called a 
Thrower is the man under whose hand this grey dough takes the 
shapes of the simpler household vessels as quickly as the eye can 
follow? You don't mean to say you cannot call him up before 
you, sitting, with his atten<iant woman, at his potter's wheel — a 
disc about the size of a dinner plate, revolving on two drums slowly 
or quickly as he wills — who made you a complete breakfast set 
for a bachelor, as a good-humoured little off'-hand joke? You 
remember how he took up as much dough as he wanted, and, 
throwing it on his wheel, in a moment fashioned it into a teacup 
— caught up more clay and made a saucer — a larger dab and 
whirled it into a teapot — winked at a smaller dab and converted 
it into the lid of the teapot, accurately fitting by the measurement 
of his eye alone — coaxed a middle-sized dab for two seconds, broke 
it, turned it over at the rim, and made a milkpot — laughed, and 
turned out a slop-basin — coughed, and provided for the sugar ? 
Neither, I think, are you oblivious of the newer mode of making 
various articles, but especially basins, according to which improve- 
ment a mould revolves instead of a disc ? For you must remember 
(says the plate) how you saw the mould of a little basin spinning 
round and round, and how the workman smoothed and pressed a 
handful of dough upon it, and how with an instrument called a 
profile (a piece of wood, representing the profile of a basin's foot) 
he cleverly scraped and carved the ring which makes the base of 
any such basin, and then took the basin off" the lathe like a doughey 
skull-cap to be dried, and afterwards (in what is called a green 
state) to be put into a second lathe, there to be finished and bur- 
nished with a steel burnisher? And as to moulding in general 
(says the plate), it can't be necessary for me to remind you that all 



162 REPRINTED PIECES. 

ornamental articles, and indeed all articles not quite circular, are 
made in moulds. For you must remember how you saw the vege- 
table dishes, for example, being made in moulds; and how the 
handles of teacups, and the spouts of teapots, and the feet of 
tureens, and so forth, are all made in little separate moulds, and 
are each stuck on to the body corporate, of which it is destined to 
form a part, with a stuff called " slag," as quickly as you can recol- 
lect it. Further, you learnt — you know you did — in the same 
visit, how the beautiful sculptures in the delicate new material 
called Parian, are all constructed in moulds ; how, into that mate- 
rial, animal bones are ground up, because the phosphate of lime con- 
tained in bones makes it translucent ; how everything is moulded, 
before going into the fire, one-fourth larger than it is intended to 
come out of the fire, because it shrinks in that proportion in the 
intense heat ; how, when a figure shrinks unequally, it is spoiled 
— emerging from the furnace a mis-shapen birth ; a big head and 
a little body, or a little head and a big body, or a Quasimodo with 
long arms and short legs, or a Miss Biffin with neither legs nor 
arms worth mentioning. 

And as to the Kilns, in which the firing takes place, and in which 
some of the more precious articles are burnt repeatedly, in various 
stages of their process towards completion, — as to the Kilns (says 
the plate, warming with the recollection), if you don't remember 
THEM with a horrible interest, what did you ever go to Copeland's 
for ? When you stood inside of one of those inverted bowls of a 
Pre- Adamite tobacco-pipe, looking up at the blue sky through the 
open top far off, as you might have looked up from a well, sunk 
under the centre of the pavement of the Pantheon at Rome, had you 
the least idea where you were 1 And when you found yourself sur- 
rounded, in that dome-shaped cavern, by innumerable columns of 
an unearthly order of architecture, supporting nothing, and squeezed 
close together as if a Pre- Adamite Samson had taken a vast Hall in 
his arms and crushed it into the smallest possible space, had you 
the least idea what they were ? No (says the plate), of course not ! 
And when you found that each of those pillars was a pile of 
ingeniously made vessels of coarse clay — called Saggers — looking, 
when separate, like raised-pies for the table of the mighty Giant 
Blunderbore, and now all full of various articles of pottery ranged 
in them in baking order, the bottom of each vessel serving for the 
cover of the one below, and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with 
these, tier upon tier, until the last workman should have barely 
room to crawl out, before the closing of the jagged aperture in the 
wall and the kindling of the gradual fire ; did you not stand amazed 
to think that all the year round these dread chambers are heating, 



A PLATED ARTICLE. 163 

white hot — and coolmg — and filling — and emptying — and being 
bricked up — - and broken open — humanly speaking, for ever and 
ever 1 To be sure you did ! And standing in one of those Kilns 
nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot across the aperture a-top, 
and learning how the fire would wax hotter and hotter by slow degrees, 
and would cool similarly through a space of from forty to sixty hours, 
did no remembrance of the days when human clay was burnt oppress 
you 1 Yes, I think so ! I suspect that some fancy of a fiery haze 
and a shortening breath, and a growing heat, and a gasping prayer ; 
and a figure in black interposing between you and the sky (as fig- 
ures in black are very apt to do), and looking down, before it grew 
too hot to look and live, upon the Heretic in his edifying agony — 
I say I suspect (says the plate) that some such fancy was pretty 
strong upon you when you went out into the air, and blessed God 
for the bright spring day and the degenerate times ! 

After that, I needn't remind you what a relief it was to see the 
simplest process of ornamenting this " biscuit " (as it is called when 
baked) with brown circles and blue trees — converting it into the 
common crockery-ware that is exported to Africa, and used in cot- 
tages at home. For (says the plate) I am well persuaded that you 
bear in mind how those particular jugs and mugs were once more 
set upon a lathe and put in motion ; and how a man blew the brown 
colour (having a strong natural affinity with the material in that con- 
dition) on them from a blow-pipe as they twirled ; and how his 
daughter, with a common brush, dropped blotches of blue upon 
them in the right places ; and how, tilting the blotches upside down, 
she made them run into rude images of trees, and there an end. 

And didn't you see (says the plate) planted upon my own brother 
that astounding blue willow, with knobbed and gnarled trunk, and 
foliage of blue ostrich feathers, which gives our family the title of 
"willow pattern r' And didn't you observe, transferred upon him 
at the same time, that blue bridge which spans nothing, growing 
out from the roots of the willow ; and the three blue Chinese going 
over it into a blue temple, which has a fine crop of blue bushes 
sprouting out of the roof; and a blue boat sailing above them, the 
mast of which is burglariously sticking itself into the foundations 
of a blue villa, suspended sky-high, surmounted by a lump of blue 
rock, sky-higher, and a couple of billing blue birds, sky-highest — 
together with the rest of that amusing blue landscape, which has, 
in deference to our revered ancestors of the Cerulean Empire, and 
in defiance of every known law of perspective, adorned millions of 
our family ever since the days of platters ? Didn't you inspect the 
copper-plate on which my pattern was deeply engraved ? Didn't 
you perceive an impression of it taken in cobalt colour at a cylindri- 



164 REPRINTED PIECES. 

cal press, upon a leaf of thin paper, streaming from a plunge-bath 
of soap and water ? Wasn't the paper impression daintily spread, 
by a light-fingered damsel (you hioiv you admired her !), over the 
surface of the plate, and the back of the paper rubbed prodigiously 
hard — with a long tight roll of flannel, tied up like a round of hung 
beef — without so much as ruffling the paper, wet as it was 1 Then 
(says the plate), was not the paper washed away with a sponge, and 
didn't there appear, set off upon the plate, this identical piece of Pre- 
Raphaelite blue distemper which you now behold ? Not to be de- 
nied ! I had seen all this — and more. I had been shown, at 
Copeland's, patterns of beautiful design, in faultless perspective, 
which are causing the ugly old willow to wither out of public fa- 
vour ; and which, being quite as cheap, insinuate good wholesome 
natural art into the humblest households. When Mr. and Mrs. 
Sprat have satisfied their material tastes by that equal division of 
fat and lean which has made their menage immortal ; and have, 
after the elegant tradition, "licked the platter clean," they can — 
thanks to modern artists in clay — feast their intellectual tastes 
upon excellent delineations of natural objects. 

This reflection prompts me to transfer my attention from the blue 
plate to the forlorn but cheerfully painted vase on the sideboard. 
And surely (says the plate) you have not forgotten how the outlines 
of such groups of flowers as you see there, are printed, just as I was 
printed, and are afterwards shaded and filled in with metallic colours 
by women and girls? As to the aristocracy of our order, made of 
the finer clay — porcelain peers and peeresses ; — the slabs, and pan- 
els, and table tops, andtazze ; the endless nobility and gentry of dessert, 
breakfast, and tea services ; the gemmed perfume bottles, and scar- 
let and gold salvers ; you saw that they were painted by artists, 
with metallic colours laid on with camel-hair pencils, and after- 
wards burnt in. 

And talking of burning in (says the plate), didn't you find that 
every subject, from the willow-pattern to the landscape after Turner 
— having been framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit — has to be 
glazed 1 Of course, you saw the glaze — composed of various vitre- 
ous materials — laid over every article ; and of course you witnessed 
the close imprisonment of each piece in saggers upon the separate 
system rigidly enforced by means of fine-pointed earthenware stilts 
placed between the articles to prevent the slightest communication 
or contact. We had in my time — and I suppose it is the same 
now — fourteen hours' firing to fix the glaze and to make it " run " 
all over us equally, so as to put a good shiny and unscratchable sur- 
face upon us. Doubtless, you observed that one sort of glaze — 
called printing-body — is burnt into the better sort of ware before 



OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND. 165 

it is printed. Upon this you saw some of the finest steel engrav- 
ings transferred, to be fixed by an after glazing — didn't you? 
Why, of course you did ! 

Of course I did. I had seen and enjoyed everything that the 
plate recalled to me, and had beheld with admiration how the rota- 
tory motion which keeps this ball of ours in its place in the great 
scheme, with all its busy mites upon it, was necessary throughout 
the process, and could only be dispensed with in the fire. So, lis- 
tening to the plate's reminders, and musing upon them, I got 
through the evening after all, and went to bed. I made but one 
sleep of it — for which I have no doubt I am also indebted to the 
plate — and left the lonely Dodo in the morning, quite at peace 
with it, before the bandy-legged baby was up. 



Household Words, Vol. 5, No. 123, July 31, 1852. 
OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND. 

We are delighted to find that he has got in ! Our honourable 
friend is triumphantly returned to serve in the next Parliament. 
He is the honourable member for Verbosity — the best represented 
place in England. 

Our honourable friend has issued an address of congratulation to 
the Electors, which is worthy of that noble constituency, and is a 
very pretty piece of composition. In electing him, he says, they 
have covered themselves with glory, and England has been true to 
herself. (In his preliminary address he had remarked, in a poeti- 
cal quotation of great rarity, that nought could make us rue, if 
England to herself did prove but true.) 

Our honourable friend delivers a prediction, in the same docu- 
ment, that the feeble minions of a faction will never hold up their 
heads any more ; and that the finger of scorn will point at them in 
their dejected state, through countless ages of time. Further, that 
the hireling tools that would destroy the sacred bulwarks of our 
nationality are unworthy of the name of Englishman ; and that so 
long as the sea shall roll around our ocean-girded isle, so long his 
motto shall be. No Surrender. Certain dogged persons of low prin- 
ciples and no intellect, have disputed whether anybody knows who 
the minions are, or what the faction is, or which are the hireling 
tools and which the sacred bulwarks, or what it is tliat is never to 
be surrendered, and if not, why not 1 But, our honourable friend 
the member for Verbosity knows all about it. 



166 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Our honourable friend has sat in several parliaments, and given 
bushels of votes. He is a man of that profundity in the matter of 
vote-giving, that you never know what he means. When he seems 
to be voting pure white, he may be in reality voting jet black. 
When he says Yes, it is just as likely as not — or rather more so 
— that he means No. This is the statesmanship of our honourable 
friend. It is in this, that he differs from mere unparliamentary 
men. You may not know what he meant then, or what he means 
now ; but, our honourable friend knows, and did from the first know, 
both what he meant then, and what he means now ; and when he 
said he didn't mean it tlien, he did in fact say, that he means it 
now. And if you mean to say that you did not then, and do not 
now, know what he did mean then, or does mean now, our honour- 
able friend will be glad to receive an explicit declaration from you 
whether you are prepared to destroy the sacred bulwarks of our 
nationality. 

Our honourable friend, the member for Verbosity, has this great 
attribute, that he always means something, and always means the 
same thing. When he came down to that House and mournfully 
boasted in his place, as an individual member of the assembled 
Commons of this great and happy country, that he could lay his 
hand upon his heart, and solemnly declare that no consideration on 
earth should induce him, at any time or under any circumstances, 
to go as far north as Berwick-upon-Tweed ; and when he never- 
theless, next year, did go to Berwick-upon-Tweed, and even beyond 
it, to Edinburgh ; he had one single meaning, one and indivisible. 
And God forbid (our honourable friend says) that he should waste 
another argument upon the man who professes that he cannot un- 
derstand it! "I do NOT, gentlemen," said our honourable friend, 
with indignant emphasis and amid great cheering, on one such 
public occasion. " I do not, gentlemen, I am free to confess, envy 
the feelings of that man whose mind is so constituted as that he 
can hold such language to me, and yet lay his head upon his pillow, 
claiming to be a native of that land, 

Whose march is o'er the mountain-wave, 
Whose home is on the deep ! " 

(Vehement cheering, and man expelled.) 

When our honourable friend issued his preliminary address to the 
constituent body of Verbosity on the occasion of one particular 
glorious triumph, it was supposed by some of his enemies, that even 
he would be placed in a situation of difficulty by the following com- 
paratively trifling conjunction of circumstances. The dozen noble- 



OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND. 167 

men and gentlemen whom our honourable friend supported, had 
"come in," expressly to do a certain thing. Now, four of the 
dozen said, at a certain place, that the}'" didn't mean to do that 
thing, and had never meant to do it ; another four of the dozen 
said, at another certain place, that they did mean to do that thing, 
and had always meant to do it ; two of the remaining four said, at 
two other certain places, that they meant to do half of that thing (but 
differed about which half), and to do a variety of nameless wonders 
instead of the other half ; and one of the remaining two declared 
that the thing itself was dead and buried, while the other as strenu- 
ously protested that it was alive and kicking. It was admitted 
that the parliamentary genius of our honourable friend would be 
quite able to reconcile such small discrepancies as these ; but, there 
remained the additional difficulty that each of the twelve made 
entirely different statements at different places, and that all the 
twelve called everything visible and invisible, sacred and profane, 
to witness, that they were a perfectly impregnable phalanx of una- 
nimity. This, it was apprehended, would be a stumbling-block to 
our honourable friend. 

The difficulty came before our honourable friend, in this way. He 
went down to Verbosity to meet his free and independent constitu- 
ents, and to render an account (as he informed them in the local 
papers) of the trust they had confided to his hands — that trust 
which it was one of the proudest privileges of an Englishman to 
possess — that trust which it was the proudest privilege of an Eng- 
lishman to hold. It may be mentioned as a proof of the great gen- 
eral interest attaching to the contest, that a Lunatic whom nobody 
employed or knew, went down to Verbosity with several thousand 
pounds in gold, determined to give the whole away — which he 
actually did ; and that all the publicans opened their houses for 
nothing. Likewise, several fighting men, and a patriotic group of 
burglars sportively armed with life-preservers, proceeded (in ba- 
rouches and very drank) to the scene of action at their own ex- 
pense ; these children of nature having conceived a warm attach- 
ment to our honourable friend, and intending, in their artless manner, 
to testify it by knocking the voters in the opposite interest on the 
head. 

Our honourable friend being come into the presence of his constitu- 
ents, and having professed with great suavity that he was delighted 
to see his good friend Tipkisson there, in his working dress — his 
good friend Tipkisson being an inveterate saddler, who always 
opposes him, and for whom he has a mortal hatred — made them 
a brisk, ginger-beery sort of speech, in which he showed them how 
the dozen noblemen and gentlemen had (in exactly ten days from their 



168 REPRINTED PIECES. 

coming in) exercised a surprisingly beneficial effect on the whole 
financial condition of Europe, had altered the state of the exports 
and imports for the current half-year, had prevented the drain of 
gold, had made all that matter right about the glut of the raw 
material, and had restored all sorts of balances with which the 
superseded noblemen and gentlemen had played the deuce — and 
all this, with wheat at so much a quarter, gold at so much an ounce, 
and the Bank of England discounting good bills at so much per 
cent ! He might be asked, he observed in a peroration of great 
power, what were his principles 1 His principles were what they 
always had been. His principles were written in the countenances 
of the lion and unicorn; were stamped indelibly upon the royal 
shield which those grand animals supported, and upon the free 
words of fire which that shield bore. His principles were, Britan- 
nia and her sea-king trident ! His principles were, commercial 
prosperity co-existently with perfect and profound agricultural con- 
tentment ; but short of this he would never stop. His principles 
were, these, — with the addition of his colours nailed to the mast, 
every man's heart in the right place, every man's eye open, every 
man's hand ready, every man's mind on the alert. His principles 
were these, concurrently with a general revision of something — ■ 
speaking generally — and a possible readjustment of something else, 
not to be mentioned more particularly. His principles, to sum up 
all in a word were, Hearths and Altars, Labour and Capital, Crown 
and Sceptre, Elephant and Castle. And now, if his good friend 
Tipkisson required any further explanation from him he (our hon- 
ourable friend) was there, willing and ready to give it. 

Tipkisson, who all this time had stood conspicuous in the crowd, 
with his arms folded and his eyes intently fastened on our honour- 
able friend : Tipkisson, who throughout our honourable friend's 
address had not relaxed a muscle of his visage, but had stood there, 
wholly unaffected by the torrent of eloquence : an object of contempt 
and scorn to mankind (by which we mean, of course, to the sup- 
porters of our honourable friend) ; Tipkisson now said that he was 
a plain man (Cries of " You are indeed ! "), and that what he wanted 
to know was, what our honourable friend and the dozen noblemen and 
gentlemen were driving at ? 

Our honourable friend immediately replied, " At the illimitable 
perspective." 

It was considered by the whole assembly that this happy state- 
ment of our honourable friend's political views ought, immediately, 
to have settled Tipkisson's business and covered him with confu- 
sion ; but, that implacable person, regardless of the execrations 
that were heaped upon him from all sides (by which we mean, of 



OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND. 169 

course, from our honourable friend's side), persisted in retaining an 
unmoved countenance, and obstinately retorted that if our honour- 
able friend meant that, he wished to know what that meant ? 

It was in repelling this most objectionable and indecent opposi- 
tion, that our honourable friend displayed his highest qualifications 
for the representation of Verbosity. His warmest supporters pres- 
ent, and those who were best acquainted with his generalship, sup- 
posed that the moment was come when he would fall back upon 
the sacred bulwarks of our nationality. No such thing. He replied 
thus : " My good friend Tipkisson, gentlemen, wishes to know what 
I mean when he asks me what we are driving at, and when I can- 
didly tell him, at the illimitable perspective, he wishes (if I under- 
stand him) to know what I mean?" "I do!" says Tipkisson, 
amid cries of "Shame" and "Down with him." "Gentlemen," 
says our honourable friend, " I will indulge my good friend Tipkis- 
son, by telling him, both what I mean and what I don't mean. 
(Cheers and cries of " Give it him ! ") Be it known to him 
then, and to all whom it may concern, that I do mean altars, hearths, 
and homes, and that I don't mean mosques and Mohammedanism ! " 
The effect of this home-thrust was terrific. Tipkisson (who is a 
Baptist) was hooted down and hustled out, and has ever since been 
regarded as a Turkish Renegade who contemplates an early pilgrim- 
age to Mecca. Nor was he the only discomfited man. The charge, 
while it stuck to him, was magically transferred to our honourable 
friend's opponent, who was represented in an immense variety of 
placards as a firm believer in Mahomet ; and the men of Verbosity 
were asked to choose between our honourable friend and the Bible, 
and our honourable friend's opponent and the Koran. They de- 
cided for our honourable friend, and rallied round the illimitable 
perspective. 

It has been claimed for our honourable friend, with much appear- 
ance of reason, that he was the first to bend sacred matters to elec- 
tioneering tactics. However this may be, the fine precedent was 
undoubtedly set in a Verbosity election : and it is certain that our 
honourable friend (who was a disciple of Brahma in his youth, and 
was a Buddhist when we had the honour of travelling with him a 
few years ago), always professes in public more anxiety than the 
whole Bench of Bishops, regarding the theological and doxological 
opinions of every man, woman, and child, in the United Kingdom. 

As we began by saying that our honourable friend has got in 
again at this last election, and that we are delighted to find that 
he has got in, so we will conclude. Our honourable friend cannot 
come in for Verbosity too often. It is a good sign ; it is a great 
example. It is to men like our honourable friend, and to contests 



170 REPRINTED PIECES. 

like those from which he comes triumphant, that we are mainly- 
indebted for that ready interest in politics, that fresh enthusiasm 
in the discharge of the duties of citizenship, that ardent desire to 
rush to the poll, at present so manifest throughout England. 
When the contest lies (as it sometimes does) between two such 
men as our honourable friend, it stimulates the finest emotions of 
our nature, and awakens the highest admiration of which our heads 
and hearts are capable. 

It is not too much to predict that our honourable friend will be 
always at his post in the ensuing session. Whatever the question 
be, or whatever the form of its discussion ; address to the crown, 
election petition, expenditure of the public money, extension of the 
public suffrage, education, crime ; in the whole house, in committee 
of the whole house, in select committee ; in every parliamentary 
discussion of every subject, everywhere : the Honourable Member 
for Verbosity will most certainly be found. 



Household Words, Vol. 5, No. 127, Aug. 23, 1852. 
OUR VESTRY. 

We have the glorious privilege of being always in hot water if 
we like. We are a shareholder in a Great Parochial British Joint 
Stock Bank of Balderdash. We have a Vestry in our borough, and 
can vote for a vestryman — might even he a vestryman, mayhap, 
if we were inspired by a lofty and noble ambition. Which we are 
not. 

Our Vestry is a deliberative assembly of the utmost dignity and 
importance. Like the Senate of ancient Rome, its awful gravity 
overpowers (or ought to overpower) barbarian visitors. It sits 
in the Capitol (we mean in the capital building erected for it), 
chiefly on Saturdays, and shakes the earth to its centre with the 
echoes of its thundering eloquence, in a Sunday paper. 

To get into this Vestry in the eminent capacity of Vestryman, 
gigantic efforts are made, and Herculean exertions used. It is 
made manifest to the dullest capacity at every election, that if we 
reject Snozzle we are done for, and that if we fail to bring in Blun- 
derbooze at the top of the poll, we are unworthy of the dearest 
rights of Britons. Flaming placards are rife on all the dead walls 
in the borough, public-houses hang out banners, hackney-cabs burst 
into full-grown flowers of type, and everybody is, or should be, in 
a paroxysm of anxiety. 



OUR VESTRY. 171 

At these momentous crises of the national fate, we are much 
assisted in our deliberations by two eminent volunteers ; one of 
whom subscribes himself A Fellow Parishioner, the other, A Rate- 
Payer. Who they are, or what they are, or where they are, no- 
body knows; but, whatever one asserts, the other contradicts. 
They are both voluminous writers, inditing more epistles than 
Lord Chesterfield in a single week ; and the greater part of their 
feelings are too big for utterance in anything less than capital 
letters. They require the additional aid of whole rows of notes of 
admiration, like balloons, to point their generous indignation ; and 
they sometimes communicate a crushing severity to stars. As thus : 

MEN OF MOONEYMOUNT. 

Is it, or is it not, a ^ "^ * to saddle the parish with a debt of 
£2,745 6s. 9d, yet claim to be a rigid economist? 

Is it, or is it not, a "* * * to state as a fact what is proved to 
be both a moral and a physical impossibility ? 

Is it, or is it not, a =^ * * to call £2,745 6.5. 9d nothing; and 
nothing, something? 

Do you, or do you not want a * * * to represent you in 
THE Vestry? 

Your consideration of these questions is recommended to you by 

A Fellow Parishioner. 

It was to this important public document that one of our 
first orators, Mr. Magg (of Little Winkling Street), adverted, 
when he opened the great debate of the fourteenth of November 
by saying, " Sir, I hold in my hand an anonymous slander" — and 
when the interruption, with which he was at that point assailed by 
the opposite faction, gave rise to that memorable discussion on a 
point of order which will ever be remembered with interest by con- 
stitutional assemblies. In the anirrated debate to which we refer, 
no fewer than thirty-seven gentlemen, many of them of great emi- 
nence, including Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square), were seen 
upon their legs at one time ; and it was on the same great occasion 
that Dogginson — regarded in our Vestry as "a regular John 
Bull : " we believe, in consequence of his having always made up 
his mind on every subject without knowing anything about it — 
informed another gentleman of similar principles on the opposite 
side, that if he " cheek'd him," he would resort to the extreme 
measure of knocking his blessed head off. 

This was a great occasion. But, our Vestry shines habitually. 
In asserting its own pre-eminence, for instance, it is very strong. 



172 REPRINTED PIECES. 

On the least provocation, or on none, it will be clamorous to know 
whether it is to be "dictated to," or "trampled on," or "ridden 
over rough-shod." Its great watchword is Self-government. That 
is to say, supposing our Vestry to favour any little harmless dis- 
order like Typhus Fever, and supposing the Government of the 
country to be, by any accident, in such ridiculous hands, as that 
any of its authorities should consider it a duty to object to Typhus 
Fever — obviously an unconstitutional objection — then, our Vestry 
cuts in with a terrible manifesto about Self-government, and claims 
its independent right to have as mucli Typhus Fever as pleases it- 
self. Some absurd and dangerous persons have represented, on 
the other hand, that though our Vestry may be able to " beat the 
bounds " of its own parish, it may not be able to beat the bounds 
of its own diseases ; which (say they) spread over the whole land, 
in an ever-expanding circle of waste, and misery, and death, and 
widowhood, and orphanage, and desolation. But, our Vestry makes 
short work of any such fellows as these. 

It was our Vestry — pink of Vestries as it is — that in support 
of its favourite principle took the celebrated ground of denying 
the existence of the last pestilence that raged in England, when 
the pestilence was raging at the Vestry doors. Dogginson said it 
was plums ; Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square) said it was oys- 
ters ; Mr. Magg (of Little Winkling Street) said, amid great cheer- 
ing, it was the newspapers. The noble indignation of our Vestry 
with that un-English institution the Board of Health, under those 
circumstances, yields one of the finest passages in its history. It 
wouldn't hear of rescue. Like Mr. Joseph Miller's Frenchman, it 
would be drowned and nobody should save it. Transported be- 
yond grammar by its kindled ire, it spoke in unknown tongues, 
and vented unintelligible bellowings, more like an ancient oracle 
than the modern oracle it is admitted on all hands to be. Rare 
exigencies produce rare things ; and even our Vestry, new hatched 
to the woful time, came forth a greater goose than ever. 

But this, again, was a special occasion. Our Vestry, at more 
ordinary periods, demands its meed of praise. 

Our Vestry is eminently parliamentary. Playing at Parliament 
is its favourite game. It is even regarded by some of its members 
as a chapel of ease to the House of Commons : a Little Go to be 
passed first. It has its strangers' gallery, and its reported debates 
(see the Sunday paper before mentioned), and our Vestrymen are 
in and out of order, and on and off their legs, and above all are 
transcendantly quarrelsome, after the pattern of the real original. 

Our Vestry being assembled, Mr. Magg never begs to trouble 
Mr. Wigsby with a simple inquiry. He knows better than that. 



OUR VESTRY. 173 

Seeing the honourable gentleman, associated in their minds with 
Chumbledon Square, in his place, he wishes to ask that honour- 
able gentleman what the intentions of himself, and those with 
whom he acts, may be, on the subject of the paving of the district 
known as Piggleum Buildings 1 Mr. Wigsby replies (with his eye 
on next Sunday's paper) that in reference to the question which 
has been put to him by the lionourable gentleman opposite, he 
must take leave to say, that if that honourable gentleman had had 
the courtesy to give him notice of that question, he (Mr. Wigsby) 
would have consulted with his colleagues in reference to the advis- 
ability, in the present state of the discussions on the new paving- 
rate, of answering that question. But, as the honourable gentle- 
man has NOT had the courtesy to give him notice of that question 
(great cheering from the Wigsby interest), he must decline to give 
the honourable gentleman the satisfaction he requires. Mr. Magg, 
instantly rising to retort, is received with loud cries of " Spoke ! " 
from the Wigsby interest, and with cheers from the Magg side of 
the house. Moreover, five gentlemen rise to order, and one of 
them, in revenge for being taken no notice of, petrifies the assem- 
bly by moving that this Vestry do now adjourn ; but, is persuaded 
to withdraw that awful proposal, in consideration of its tremendous 
consequences if persevered in. Mr. Magg, for the purpose of being 
heard, then begs to move, that you, sir, do now pass to the order 
of the day ; and takes that opportunity of saying, that if an honour- 
able gentleman whom he has in his eye, and will not demean him- 
self by more particularly naming (oh, oh, and cheers), supposes 
that he is to be put down by clamour, that honourable gentleman 
— however supported he may be, through thick and thin, by a 
Fellow Parishioner, with whom he is well acquainted (cheers and 
counter-cheers, Mr. Magg being invariably backed by the Eate- 
Payer) — will find himself mistaken. Upon this, twenty members 
of our Vestry speak in succession concerning what the two great 
men have meant, until it appears, after an hour and twenty min- 
utes, that neither of them meant anything. Then our Vestry 
begins business. 

We have said that, after the pattern of the real original, our 
Vestry in playing at Parliament is transcendantly quarrelsome. 
It enjoys a personal altercation above all things. Perhaps the 
most redoubtable case of this kind we have ever had — though we 
have had so many that it is difficult to decide — was that on which 
the last extreme solemnities passed between Mr. Tiddypot (of 
Gumption House) and Captain Banger (of Wilderness Walk). 

In an adjourned debate on the question whether water could be 
regarded in the light of a necessary of life ; respecting which there 



174 REPRINTED PIECES. 

were great differences of opinion, and many shades of sentiment ; 
Mr. Tiddypot, in a powerful burst of eloquence against that hy- 
pothesis, frequently made use of the expression that such and such 
a rumour had "reached his ears." Captain Banger, following him, 
and holding that, for purposes of ablution and refreshment, a pint 
of Water per diem was necessary for every adult of the lower classes, 
and half a pint for every child, cast ridicule upon his address in a 
sparkling speech, and concluded by saying that instead of those 
rumours having reached the ears of the honourable gentleman, he 
rather thought the honourable gentleman's ears must have reached 
the rumours, in consequence of their well-known length. Mr. 
Tiddypot immediately rose, looked the honourable and gallant 
gentleman full in the face, and left the Vestry. 

The excitement, at this moment painfully intense, was height- 
ened to an acute degree when Captain Banger rose, and also left 
the Vestry. After a few moments of profound silence — one of 
those breathless pauses never to be forgotten — Mr. Chib (of 
Tucket's Terrace, and the father of the Vestry) rose. He said that 
words and looks had passed in that assembly, replete with conse- 
quences which every feeling mind must deplore. Time pressed. 
The sword was drawn, and while he spoke the scabbard might be 
thrown away. He moved that those honourable gentlemen who had 
left the Vestry be recalled, and required to pledge themselves upon 
their honour that this affair should go no farther. The motion being 
by a general union of parties unanimously agreed to (for everybody 
wanted to have the belligerents there, instead of out of sight : 
which was no fun at all), Mr. Magg was deputed to recover 
Captain Banger, and Mr. Chib himself to go in search of Mr. 
Tiddypot. The Captain was found in a conspicuous position, sur- 
veying the passing omnibuses from the top step of the front-door 
immediately adjoining the beadle's box; Mr. Tiddypot made a 
desperate attempt at resistance, but was overpowered by Mr. Chib 
(a remarkably hale old gentleman of eighty-two), and brought back 
in safety. 

Mr. Tiddypot and the Captain being restored to their places, and 
glaring on each other, were called upon by the chair to abandon all 
homicidal intentions, and give the Vestry an assurance that they 
did so. Mr. Tiddypot remained profoundly silent. The Captain 
likewise remained profoundly silent, saying that he was observed 
by those around him to fold his arms like Napoleon Buonaparte, 
and to snort in his breathing — actions but too expressive olF 
gunpowder. 

The most intense emotion now prevailed. Several members 
clustered in remonstrance round the Captain, and several round 



OUR VESTRY. I75 

Mr. Tiddypot ; but, both were obdurate. Mr. Chib then presented 
himself amid tremendous cheering, and said, that not to shrink 
from the discharge of his painful duty, he must now move that 
both honourable gentlemen be taken into custody by the beadle, 
and conveyed to the nearest police-office, there to be held to bail. 
The union of parties still continuing, the motion was seconded by 
Mr. Wigsby — on all usual occasions Mr. Chib's opponent — and 
rapturously carried with only one dissentient voice. This was 
Dogginson's, who said from his place " Let 'em fight it out with 
fistes ; " but whose coarse remark was received as it merited. 

The beadle now advanced along the floor of the Vestry, and 
beckoned with his cocked hat to both members. Every breath 
was suspended. To say that a pin might have been heard to fall, 
would be feebly to express the all-absorbing interest and silence. 
Suddenly, enthusiastic cheering broke out from every side of the 
Vestry. Captain Banger had risen — being, in fact, pulled up by 
a friend on either side, and poked up by a friend behind. 

The Captain said, in a deep determined voice, that he had every 
respect for that Vestry and every respect for that chair ; that he 
also respected the honourable gentleman of G-umption House ; but, 
that he respected his honour more. Hereupon the Captain sat 
down, leaving the whole Vestry much affected. Mr. Tiddypot in- 
stantly rose, and was received with the same encouragement. He 
likewise said — and the exquisite art of this orator communicated 
to the observation an air of freshness and novelty — that he too 
had every respect for that Vestry ; that he too had every respect 
for that chair. That he too respected the honourable and gallant 
gentleman of Wilderness Walk; but, that he too respected his 
honour more. " Ho ws'ever," added the distinguished Vestryman, 
"if the honourable or gallant gentleman's honour is never more 
doubted and damaged than it is by me, he's all right." Captain 
Banger immediately started up again, and said that after those 
observations, involving as they did ample concession to his honour 
without compromising the honour of the honourable gentleman, he 
would be wanting in honour as well as in generosity, if he did not 
at once repudiate all intention of wounding the honour of the 
honourable gentleman, or saying anything dishonourable to his 
honourable feelings. These observations were repeatedly inter- 
rupted by bursts of cheers. Mr. Tiddypot retorted that he well 
knew the spirit of honour by which the honourable and gallant 
gentleman was so honourably animated, and that he accepted an 
honourable explanation, ofi'ered in a way that did him honour; 
but, he trusted that the Vestry would consider that his (Mr. Tiddy- 
pot's) honour had imperatively demanded of him that painful course 



176 REPRINTED PIECES. 

which he had felt it due to his honour to adopt. The Captain and 
Mr. Tiddypot then touched their hats to one another across the 
Vestry, a great many times, and it is thought that these proceed- 
ings (reported to the extent of several columns in next Sunday's 
paper) will bring them in as churchwardens next year. 

All this was strictly after the pattern of the real original, and 
so are the whole of our Vestry's proceedings. In all their debates, 
they are laudably imitative of the windy and wordy slang of the 
real original, and of nothing that is better in it. They have head- 
strong party animosities, without any reference to the merits of 
questions ; they tack a surprising amount of debate to a very little 
business ; they set more store by forms than they do by substances : 
— all very like the real original ! It has been doubted in our 
borough, whether our Vestry is of any utility ; but our own con- 
clusion is, that it is of the use to the Borough that a diminishing 
mirror is to a painter, as enabling it to perceive in a small focus of 
absurdity all the surface defects of the real original. 



Household Words, Vol. 6, No. 133, Oct. 9, 1852. 
OUR BORE. 

It is unnecessary to say that we keep a bore. Everybody does. 
But, the bore whom we have the pleasure and honour of enumerat- 
ing among our particular friends, is such a generic bore, and has so 
many traits (as it appears to us) in common with the great bore 
family, that we are tempted to make him the subject of the present 
notes. May he be generally accepted ! 

Our bore is admitted on all hands to be a good-hearted man. 
He may put fifty people out of temper, but he keeps his own. He 
preserves a sickly solid smile upon his face, when other faces are 
ruffled by the perfection he has attained in his art, and has an 
equable voice which never travels out of one key or rises above one 
pitch. His manner is a manner of tranquil interest. None of his 
opinions are startling. Among his deepest-rooted convictions, it 
may be mentioned that he considers the air of England damp, and 
holds that our lively neighbours — he always calls the French our 
lively neighbours — have the advantage of us in that particular. 
Nevertheless he is unable to forget that John Bull is John Bull all 
the world over, and that England with all her faults is England still. 

Our bore has travelled. He could not possibly be a complete 
bore without having travelled. He rarely speaks of his travels 



OUR BORE. V 177 

without introducing, sometimes on his own plan of construction, 
morsels of the language of the country — which he always ti'ans- 
lates. You cannot name to him any little remote town in France, 
Italy, Germany, or Switzerland but he knows it well ; stayed there 
a fortnight under peculiar circumstances. And talking of that 
little place, perhaps you know a statue over an old fountain, up a 
little court, which is the second — no, the third — stay — yes, the 
third turning on the right, after you come out of the Post house, 
going up the hill towards the market? You donH know that 
statue ? Nor that fountain 1 You surprise him ! They are not 
usually seen by travellers (most extraordinary, he has never yet 
met with a single traveller who knew them, except one German, 
the most intelligent man he ever met in his life !) but he thought 
that YOU would have been the man to find them out. And then 
he describes them, in a circumstantial lecture half-an-hour long, 
generally delivered behind a door which is constantly being opened 
from the other side; and implores you, if you ever revisit that 
place, now do go and look at that statue and fountain ! 

Our bore, in a similar manner, being in Italy, made a discovery 
of a dreadful picture, which has been the terror of a large portion 
of the civilised world ever since. We have seen the liveliest men 
paralysed by it, across a broad dining-table. He was lounging 
among the mountains, sir, basking in the mellow influences of the 
climate, when he came to una piccola chiesa — a little church — or 
perhaps it would be more correct to say una piccolissima cappella 
— the smallest chapel you can possibly imagine — and walked in. 
There was nobody inside but a cieco — a blind man — saying his 
prayers, and a vecchio padre — old friar — rattling a money box. 
But, above the head of that friar, and immediately to the right of 
the altar as you enter — to the right of the altar ? No. To the 
left of the altar as you enter — or say near the centre — there 
hung a painting (subject. Virgin and Child) so divine in its expres- 
sion, so pure and yet so warm and rich in its tone, so fresh in its 
touch, at once so glowing in its colour and so statuesque in its 
repose, that our bore cried out in an ecstasy, " That's the finest pict- 
ure in Italy ! " And so it is, sir. There is no doubt of it. It is 
astonishing that that picture is so little known. Even the painter 
is uncertain. He afterwards took Blumb, of the Royal Academy 
(it is to be observed that our bore takes none but eminent people 
to see sights, and that none but eminent people take our bore), and 
you never saw a man so aifected in your life as Blumb was. He 
cried like a child ! And then our bore begins his description in 
detail — for all this is introductory — and strangles his hearers 
with the folds of the purple drapery. 



178 REPRINTED PIECES. 

By an equally fortunate conjunction of accidental circumstances, 
it happened that when our bore was in Switzerland, he discovered 
a Valley, of that superb character, that Chamouni is not to be 
mentioned in the same breath with it. This is how it was, sir. 
He was travelKng on a mule — had been in the saddle some days 
— when, as he and the guide, Pierre Blanquo : whom you may 
know, perhaps ? — our bore is sorry you don't, because he's the only 
guide deserving of the name — as he and Pierre were descending, 
towards evening, among those everlasting snows, to the little vil- 
lage of La Croix, our bore observed a mountain track turning off 
sharply to the right. At first he was uncertain whether it was a 
track at all, and in fact, he said to Pierre, " Qu'est que c'est done, 
mon ami ? — What is that, my friend ? " " Ou, monsieur ? " said 
Pierre, — " AVhere, sir? " "Za / — there ! " said our bore. " Mon- 
sieur, ce n^est rien de tout — sir, it's nothing at all," said Pierre. 
"Allons/ — Make haste. II va neiger — it's going to snow!" 
But, our bore was not to be done in that way, and he firmly re- 
plied, " I wish to go in that direction — je veux y aller. I am 
bent upon it — je suis determine. En avant I — go ahead ! " In 
consequence of which firmness on our bore's part, they proceeded, 
sir, during two hours of evening, and three of moonlight (they 
waited in a cavern till the moon was up), along the slenderest 
track, overhanging perpendicularly the most awful gulfs, until they 
arrived, by a winding descent, in a valley that possibly, and he 
may say probably, was never visited by any stranger before. What 
a valley ! Mountains piled on mountains, avalanches stemmed by 
pine forests ; waterfalls, chalets, mountain-torrents, wooden bridges, 
every conceivable picture of Swiss scenery ! The whole village 
turned out to receive our bore. The peasant girls kissed him, the 
men shook hands with him, one old lady of benevolent appearance 
wept upon his breast. He was conducted, in a primitive triumph, 
to the little inn : where he was taken ill next morning, and lay 
for six weeks, attended by the amiable hostess (the same benevo- 
lent old lady who had wept over night) and her charming daughter, 
Fanchette. It is nothing to say that they were attentive to him ; 
they doted on him. They called him in their simple way, VAnge 
Anglais — the English Angel. When our bore left the valley, 
there was not a dry eye in the place ; some of the people attended 
him for miles. He begs and entreats of you as a personal favour, 
that if you ever go to Switzerland again (you have mentioned that 
your last visit was your twenty-third), you will go to that valley, 
and see Swiss scenery for the first time. And if you want really 
to know the pastoral people of Switzerland, and to understand 
them, mention, in that valley, our bore's name ! 



OUR BORE. 179 

Our bore has a crushing brother in the East, who, somehow or 
other, was admitted to smoke pipes with Mehemet Ali, and in- 
stantly became an authority on the whole range of Eastern matters, 
from Haroun Alraschid to the present Sultan. He is in the habit 
of expressing mysterious opinions on this wide range of subjects, 
but on questions of foreign policy more particularly, to our bore, in 
letters ; and our bore is continually sending bits of these letters to 
the newspapers (which they never insert), and carrying other bits 
about in his pocket-book. It is even whispered that he has been 
seen at the Foreign OflQce, receiving great consideration from the 
messengers, and having his card promptly borne into the sanctuary 
of the temple. The havoc committed in society by this Eastern 
brother is beyond belief. Our bore is always ready with him. We 
have known our bore to fall upon an intelligent young sojourner in 
the wilderness, in the first sentence of a narrative, and beat all con- 
fidence out of him with one blow of his brother. He became om- 
niscient, as to foreign policy, in the smoking of those pipes with 
Mehemet Ali. The balance of power in Europe, the machinations 
of the Jesuits, the gentle and humanising influence of Austria, the 
position and prospects of that hero of the noble soul who is wor- 
shipped by happy France, are all easy reading to our bore's brother. 
And our bore is so provokingly self-denying about him ! "I don't 
pretend to more than a very general knowledge of these subjects 
myself," says he, after enervating the intellects of several strong 
men, "but these are my brother's opinions, and I believe he is 
known to be well-informed." 

The commonest incidents and places would appear to have been 
made special, expressly for our bore. Ask him whether he ever 
chanced to walk, between seven and eight in the morning, down 
St. James's Street, London, and he will tell you, never in his life 
but once. But, it's curious that that once was in eighteen thirty ; 
and that as our bore was walking down the street you have just 
mentioned, at the hour you have just mentioned — half-past seven 
— or twenty minutes to eight. No ! Let him be correct ! — 
exactly a quarter before eight by the palace clock — he met a fresh- 
coloured, grey-haired, good-humoured looking gentleman, with a 
brown umbrella, who, as he passed him, touched his hat and said, 
" Fine morning, sir, fine morning ! " — William the Fourth ! 

Ask our bore whether he has seen Mr. Barry's new Houses of 
Parliament, and he will reply that he has not yet inspected them 
minutely, but, that you remind him that it was his singular fortune 
to be the last man to see the old Houses of Parliament before the 
fire broke out. It happened in this way. Poor John Spine, the 
celebrated novelist, had taken him over to South Lambeth to read 



180 REPRINTED PIECES. 

to him the last few chapters of what was certainly his best book — 
as our bore told him at the time, adding, " Now, my dear John, 
touch it, and you'll spoil it ! " — and our bore was going back to the 
club by way of Millbank and Parliament Street, when he stopped to 
think of Canning, and look at the Houses of Parliament. Now, 
you know far more of the philosophy of Mind than our bore does, 
and are much better able to explain to him than he is to explain to you 
why or wherefore, at that particular time, the thought of fire should 
come into his head. But, it did. It did. He thought. What a 
national calamity if an edifice connected with so many associations 
should be consumed by fire ! At that time there was not a single 
soul in the street but himself. All was quiet, dark, and solitary. 
After contemplating the building for a minute — or, say a minute 
and a half, not more — our bore proceeded on his way, mechani- 
cally repeating, What a national calamity if such an edifice, con- 
nected with such associations, should be destroyed by A man 

coming towards him in a violent state of agitation completed the 
sentence, with the exclamation. Fire ! Our bore looked round, and 
the whole structure was in a blaze. 

In harmony and union with these experiences, our bore never 
went anywhere in a steam-boat but he made either the best or the 
worst voyage ever known on that station. Either he overheard the 
captain say to himself, with his hands clasped, " We are all lost ! " 
or the captain openly declared to him that he had never made such 
a run before, and never should be able to do it again. Our bore 
was in that express train on that railway, when they made (unknown 
to the passengers) the experiment of going at the rate of a hundred 
miles an hour. Our bore remarked on that occasion to the other 
people in the carriage, "This is too fast, but sit still !" He was 
at the Norwich musical festival when the extraordinary echo for 
which science has been wholly unable to account, was heard for the 
first and last time. He and the bishop heard it at the same mo- 
ment, and caught each other's eye. He was present at that illumi- 
nation of St. Peter's, of which the Pope is known to have remarked, 
as he looked at it out of his window in the Vatican, " Cielo ! 
Questa cosa non sara fatta, mai ancora, come questa — Heaven ! 
this thing will never be done again, like this ! " He has seen every 
lion he ever saw, under some remarkably propitious circumstances. 
He knows there is no fancy in it, because in every case the 
showman mentioned the fact at the time, and congratulated him 
upon it. 

At one period of his life, our bore had an illness. It was an ill- 
ness of a dangerous character for society at large. Innocently re- 
mark that you are very well, or that somebody else is very well ; 



OUR BORE. V 181 

and our bore, with a preface that one never knows what a blessing 
health is until one has lost it, is reminded of that illness, and drags 
you through the whole of its symptoms, progress, and treatment. 
Innocently remark that you are not well, or that somebody else is 
not well, and the same inevitable result ensues. You will learn 
how our bore felt a tightness about here, sir, for which he couldn't 
account, accompanied with a constant sensation as if he were being 
stabbed — or, rather, jobbed — that expresses it more correctly — 
jobbed — with a blunt knife. Well, sir ! This went on, until 
sparks began to flit before his eyes, water-wheels to turn round in 
his head, and hammers to beat incessantly thump, thump, thump, 
all down his back — along the whole of the spinal vertebrae. Our 
bore, when his sensations had come to this, thought it a duty he 
owed to himself to take advice, and he said. Now, whom shall I con- 
sult ? He naturally thought of Callow, at that time one of the most 
eminent physicians in London, and he went to Callow. Callow 
said, "Liver!" and prescribed rhubarb and calomel, low diet, and 
moderate exercise. Our bore went on with this treatment, getting 
worse every day, until he lost confidence in Callow, and went to 
Moon, whom half the town was then mad about. • Moon was inter- 
ested in the case ; to do him justice he was very much interested in 
the case ; and he said " Kidneys ! " He altered the whole treatment, 
sir — gave strong acids, cupped, and blistered. This went on, 
our bore still getting worse every day, until he openly told Moon 
it would be a satisfaction to him if he would have a consultation 
with Clatter. The moment Clatter saw our bore, he said, "Accu- 
mulation of fat about the heart ! " Snugglewood, who was called 
in with him, differed, and said, " Brain ! " But, what they all 
agreed upon was, to lay our bore upon his back, to shave his head, 
to leech him, to administer enormous quantities of medicine, and to 
keep him low; so that he was reduced to a mere shadow, you 
wouldn't have known him, and nobody considered it possible that 
he could ever recover. This was his condition, sir, when he heard 
of Jilkins — at that period in a very small practice, and living in 
the upper part of a house in Great Portland Street ; but still, you 
understand, with a rising reputation among the few people to whom 
he was known. Being in that condition in which a drowning man 
catches at a straw, our bore sent for Jilkins. Jilkins came. Our 
bore liked his eye, and said, " Mr. Jilkins, I have a presentiment 
that you will do me good." Jilkins's reply was characteristic of the 
man. It was, " Sir, I mean to do you good." This confirmed our 
bore's opinion of his eye, and they went into the case together — 
went completely into it. Jilkins then got up, walked across the. 
room, came back, and sat down. His words were these. " You 



182 REPRINTED PIECES. 

have been humbugged. This is a case of indigestion, occasioned by 
deficiency of power in the Stomach. Take a mutton chop in half- 
an-hour, with a glass of the finest old sherry that can be got for 
money. Take two mutton chops to-morrow, and two glasses of the 
finest old sherry. Next day, I'll come again." In a week our bore 
was on his legs, and Jilkins's success dates from that period ! 

Our bore is great in secret information. He happens to know 
many things that nobody else knows. He can generally tell you 
where the split is in the Ministry ; he knows a deal about the 
Queen ; and has little anecdotes to relate of the royal nursery. He 
gives you the judge's private opinion of Sludge the murderer, and 
his thoughts when he tried him. He happens to know what such 
a man got by such a transaction, and it was fifteen thousand five 
hundred pounds, and his income is twelve thousand a year. Our 
bore is also great in mystery. He believes, with an exasperating 
appearance of profound meaning, that you saw Parkins last Sunday 1 
— Yes, you did. — Did he say anything particular 1 —No, nothing 
particular. — Our bore is surprised at that. — Why? — Nothing. 
Only he understood that Parkins had come to tell you something. — 
What about ? — Well ! our bore is not at liberty to mention what 
about. But, he believes you will hear that from Parkins himself, 
soon, and he hopes it may not surprise you as it did him. Perhaps, 
however, you never heard about Parkins's wife's sister? — No. — 
Ah ! says our bore, that explains it ! 

Our bore is also great in argument. He infinitely enjoys a long 
humdrum, drowsy interchange of words of dispute about nothing. 
He considers that it strengthens the mind, consequently, he "don't 
see that," very often. Or, he would be glad to know what you 
mean by that. Or, he doubts that. Or, he has always understood 
exactly the reverse of that. Or, he can't admit that. Or, he begs 
to deny that. Or, surely you don't mean that. And so on. He 
once advised us ; offered us a piece of advice, after the fact, totally 
impracticable and wholly impossible of acceptance, because it sup- 
posed the fact, then eternally disposed of, to be yet in abeyance. 
It was a dozen years ago, and to this hour our bore benevolently 
wishes, in a mild voice, on certain regular occasions, that we had 
thought better of his opinion. 

The instinct with which our bore finds out another bore, and 
closes with him, is amazing. We have seen him pick his man out 
of fifty men, in a couple of minutes. They love to go (which they 
do naturally) into a slow argument on a previously exhausted sub- 
ject, and to contradict each other, and to wear the hearers out, with- 
out impairing their own perennial freshness as bores. It improves 
the good understanding between them, and they get together after- 



LYING AWAKE. 183 

wards, and bore each other amicably. Whenever we see our bore 
behind a door with another bore, we know that when he comes 
forth, he will praise the other bore as one of the most intelligent 
men he ever met. And this bringing us to the close of what we 
had to say about our bore, we are anxious to have it understood 
that he never bestowed this praise on us. 



Household Words, Vol. 6, No. 136, Oct. 30, 1852. 
LYING AWAKE. 

" My uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn 
almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and 
began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, 
the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in 
London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain 
of a traveller is crammed ; in a word, he was just falling asleep." 

Thus, that delightful writer, Washingtotst Irving^ in his Tales 
of a Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be 
lying : not with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open ; 
not with my nightcap drawn almost down to my nose, for on 
sanitary principles I never wear a nightcap : but with my hair 
pitch-forked and tousled all over the pillow ; not just falling asleep 
by any means, but glaringly, persistently, and obstinately, broad 
awake. Perhaps, with no scientific intention or invention, I was 
illustrating the theory of the Duality of the Brain ; perhaps one 
part of my brain, being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part 
which was sleepy. Be that as it may, something in me was as 
desirous to go to sleep as it possibly could be, but something else 
in me would not go to sleep, and was as obstinate as George the 
Third. 

Thinking of George the Third — for I devote this paper to my 
train of thoughts as I lay awake : most people lying awake some- 
times, and having some interest in the subject — put me in mind 
of Benjamin Franklin, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the 
art of procuring pleasant dreams, which would seem necessarily to 
include the art of going to sleep, came into my head. Now, as I 
often used to read that paper when I was a very small boy, and as 
I recollect everything I read then, as perfectly as I forget every- 
thing I read now, I quoted "Get out of bed, beat up and turn 
your pillow, shake the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, 
then throw the bed open and leave it to cool ; in the meanwhile, 



184 REPRINTED PIECES. 

continuing unclrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin 
to feel the cold air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you 
will soon full asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant." 
Not a bit of it ! I performed the whole ceremony, and if it were 
possible for me to be more saucer-eyed than I was before, that was 
the only result that came of it. 

Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving 
and Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my head by an Ameri- 
can association of ideas ; but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall 
was thundering and tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very 
rainbows that I left upon the spray when I really did last look 
upon it, were beautiful to see. The night-light being quite as 
plain, however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand miles 
further off than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little 
about Sleep ; which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of 
myself to Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and 
dear friend of mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) 
playing Macbeth, and heard him apostrophising " the death of each 
day's life," as I have heard him many a time, in the days that 
are gone. 

But, Sleep. I ivill think about Sleep. I am determined to 
think (this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the 
word Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be oft' at a tangent in half 
a second. I feel myself unaccountably straying, already, into Clare 
Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrating the equality 
of sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all 
classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty, to every grade of 
education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen 
Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, and here is 
Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails. 
Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same 
Tower, which / claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has 
Winking Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or pro- 
rogued Parliament, or has held a Drawing Room, attired in some 
very scanty dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have 
caused her great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered un- 
speakable agitation of mind from taking the chair at a public 
dinner at the London Tavern in my night-clothes, w^hich not all 
the courtesy of my kind friend and host Mr. Bathe could persuade 
me were quite adapted to the occasion. Winking Charley has been 
repeatedly tried in a worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger 
to a vault or firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct 
pattern distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself 
on her repose. Neither am I. Neither is AVinking Charley. It 



LYING AWAKE. 185 

is quite common to all three of us to skim along with airy strides 
a little above the ground ; also to hold, with the deepest interest, 
dialogues with various people, all represented by ourselves ; and to 
be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us ; and 
to be indescribably astonished by the secrets they disclose. It is 
probable that we have all three committed murders and hidden 
bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all desperately wanted 
to cry out, and have had no voice ; that we have all gone to the 
play and not been able to get in ; that we have all dreamed much 
more of our youth than of our later lives ; that — I have lost it ! 
The thread's broken. 

And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up 
I go, for no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawn by no 
links that are visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard ! I have 
lived in Switzerland, and rambled among the mountains ; but, why 
I should go there now, and why up the Great Saint Bernard in 
preference to any other mountain, I have no idea. As I lie here 
broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that I can dis- 
tinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I make 
that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with the 
same happy party — ah ! two since dead, I grieve to think — and 
there is the same track, with the same black wooden arms to point 
the way, and there are the same storm-refuges here and there; 
and there is the same snow falling at the top, and there are the 
same frosty mists, and there is the same intensely cold convent 
with its menagerie smell, and the same breed of dogs fast dying 
out, and the same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn to 
know as humbugs, and the same convent parlour with its piano 
and the sitting round the fire, and the same supper, and the same 
lone night in a cell, and the same bright fresh morning when going 
out into the highly rarefied air was like a plunge into an icy bath. 
Now, see here what comes along ; and why does this thing stalk into 
my mind on the top of a Swiss mountain ! 

It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a 
door in a little back lane near a country church — my first church. 
How young a child I may have been at the time I don't know, but 
it horrified me so intensely — in connection with the churchyard, I 
suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat with each of its 
ears sticking out in a horizontal line under the brim, and is not in 
itself more oppressive than a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of gog- 
gle eyes, and hands like two bunches of carrots, five in each, can 
make it — that it is still vaguely alarming to me to recall (as I 
have often done before, lying awake) the running home, the looking 
behind, the horror, of its following me ; though whether discon- 



186 REPRINTED PIECES. 

nected from the door, or door and all, I can't say, and perhaps 
never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve to 
think of something on the voluntary principle. 

The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think 
about, while I lie awake, as well as anything else. I must hold 
them tight tliough, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead 
are the Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horse- 
monger Lane Jail. In connection with which dismal spectacle, I 
recall this curious fantasy of the mind. That, having beheld that 
execution, and having left those two forms dangling on the top of 
the entrance gateway — the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes as 
if the man had gone out of them ; the woman's, a fine shape, so 
elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was quite un- 
changed in its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to side 
— I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some weeks, present 
the outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible impression 
I had received continually obliged me to do) without presenting it 
with the two figures still hanging in the morning air. Until, stroll- 
ing past the gloomy place one night, when the street was deserted 
and quiet, and actually seeing that the bodies were not there, my 
fancy was persuaded, as it were, to take them down and bury 
them within the precincts of the jail, where they have lain ever 
since. 

The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. 
There were the horse, the bull, the parachute, and the tumbler 
hanging on — chiefly by his toes, I believe — below the car. Very 
wrong, indeed, and decidedly to be stopped. But, in connection 
with these and similar dangerous exhibitions, it strikes me that that 
portion of the public whom they entertain, is unjustly reproached. 
Their pleasure is in the difficulty overcome. They are a public of 
great faith, and are quite confident that the gentleman will not fall 
off the horse, or the lady off the bull or out of the parachute, and 
that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. They do not go 
to see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There is no 
parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody 
can answer for the particular beast — unless it were always the 
same beast, in which case it would be a mere stage-show, which 
the same public would go in the same state of mind to see, entirely 
believing in the brute being beforehand safely subdued by the man. 
That they are not accustomed to calculate hazards and dangers with 
any nicety, we may know from their rash exposure of themselves 
in overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe conveyances and places of 
all kinds. And I cannot help thinking that instead of railing, and 
attributing savage motives to a people naturally well disposed and 



LYING AWAKE. 187 

humane, it is better to teach them, and lead them argumentatively 
and reasonably — for they are very reasonable, if you will discuss 
a matter with them — to more considerate and wise conclusions. 

This is a disagreeable intrusion ! Here is a man with his throat 
cut, dashing towards me as I lie awake ! A recollection of an old 
story of a kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter 
night to Hampstead, when London was much smaller and the road 
lonesome, suddenly encountered such a figure rushing past him, 
and presently two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very 
unpleasant creature indeed, to come into my mind unbidden, as I 
lie awake. 

— The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the 
balloons. Why did the bleeding man start out of them ? Never 
mind ; if I inquire, he will be back again. The balloons. This 
particular public have inherently a great pleasure in the contempla- 
tion of physical difficulties overcome ; mainly, as I take it, because 
the lives of a large majority of them are exceedingly monotonous 
and real, and further, are a struggle against continual difficulties, 
and further still, because anything in the form of accidental injury, 
or any kind of illness or disability is so very serious in their own 
sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox of mine. Take the 
case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody supposes that 
the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of laughter when 
the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all diverted by such an 
occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent workman in the gallery, 
who is transported beyond the ignorant present by the delight with 
which he sees a stout gentleman pushed out of a two pair of stairs 
window, to be slandered by the suspicion that he would be in the 
least entertained by such a spectacle in any street in London, 
Paris, or New York. It always appears to me that the secret of 
this enjoyment lies in the temporary superiority to the common 
hazards and mischances of life ; in seeing casualties, attended when 
they really occur with bodily and mental sufiering, tears, and 
poverty, happen through a very rough sort of poetry without the 
least harm being done to any one — the pretence of distress in a 
pantomime being so broadly humorous as to be no pretence at all. 
Much as in the comic fiction I can understand the mother with a 
very vulnerable baby at home, greatly relishing the invulnerable 
baby on the stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can understand the 
mason who is always liable to fall off a scaffold in his working 
jacket and to be carried to the hospital, having an infinite admira- 
tion of the radiant personage in spangles who goes into the clouds 
upon a bull, or upside down, and who, he takes it for granted — 
not reflecting upon the thing — has, by uncommon skill and dex- 



188 REPRINTED PIECES. 

terity, conquered such mischances as those to which he and his 
acquaintance are continually exposed. 

I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, 
with its ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging 
up, and the water dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other 
swollen saturated something in the corner, like a heap of crushed 
over-ripe figs that I have seen in Italy ! And this detestable 
Morgue comes back again at the head of a procession of forgotten 
ghost stories. This will never do. I must think of something 
else as I lie awake ; or, like that sagacious animal in the United 
States who recognised the colonel who was such a dead shot, I am 
a gone 'Coon. What shall I think of ? The late brutal assaults. 
Very good subject. The late brutal assaults. 

(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I 
lie awake, the awful phantom described in one of those ghost 
stories, who, with a head-dress of shroud, was always seen looking 
in through a certain glass door at a certain dead hour — whether, 
in such a case it would be the least consolation to me to know on 
philosophical grounds that it was merely my imagination, is a 
question I can't help asking myself by the way.) 

The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of 
advocating the revival of whipping for those crimes. It is a nat- 
ural and generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of 
inconceivable brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely. 
Not in the least regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in 
far lower estimation than a mad wolf, but in consideration for the 
general tone and feeling, which is very much improved since the 
whipping times. It is bad for a people to be familiarised with 
such punishments. When the whip went out of Bridewell, and 
ceased to be flourished at the cart's tail and at the whipping-post, 
it began to fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and schools 
and families, and to give place to a better system everywhere, than 
cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be in- 
adequately punished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many 
aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very 
contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set 
of bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine — a barbarous 
device, quite as much out of date as wager by battle, but par- 
ticularly connected in the vulgar mind with this class of offence — 
at least quadruple the term of imprisonment for aggravated assaults 
— and above all let us, in such cases, have no Pet Prisoning, vain 
glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, but hard work, and one 
unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread and water, well 
or ill ; and we shall do much better than by going down into the 



DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 189 

dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments of the rack, 
and the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from the public 
roads, and the weights that pressed men to death in the cells of 
Newgate. 

I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake 
so long that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into 
my thoughts most sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake 
no more, but to get up and go out for a night walk — which resolu- 
tion was an acceptable relief to me, as I dare say it may prove now 
to a great many more. 



Household Words, Vol. 6, No. 150, Feb. 5, 1853. 
DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 

A VERY dark night it was, and bitter cold ; the east wind blow- 
ing bleak, and bringing with it stinging particles from marsh, and 
moor, and fen — from the Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be. 
Some of the component parts of the sharp-edged vapour that came 
flying up the Thames at London might be mummy-dust, dry atoms 
from the Temple at Jerusalem, camels' foot-prints, crocodiles' hatch- 
ing places, loosened grains of expression from the visages of 
blunt-nosed sphynxes, waifs and strays from caravans of turbaned 
merchants, vegetation from jungles, frozen snow from the Hima- 
layas. ! It was very very dark upon the Thames, and it was 
bitter bitter cold. 

" And yet," said the voice within the great pea-coat at my side, 
" you'll have seen a good many rivers too, I dare say ? " 

" Truly," said I, " when I come to think of it, not a few. From 
the Niagara, downward to the mountain rivers of Italy, w^hich are 
like the national spirit — very tame, or chafing suddenly and burst- 
ing bounds, only to dwindle away again. The Moselle, and the 
Rhine, and the Rhone ; and the Seine, and the Saone ; and the 
St. Lawrence, Mississippi, and Ohio ; and the Tiber, the Po, and 
the Arno ; and the " 

Peacoat coughing as if he had had enough of that, I said no 
more. I could have carried the catalogue on to a teasing length, 
though, if I had been in the cruel mind. 

"And after all," said he, "this looks so dismal?" 

"So awful," I returned, "at night. The Seine at Paris is very 
gloomy too, at such a time, and is probably the scene of far more 
crime and greater wickedness ; but this river looks so broad and 



190 REPRINTED PIECES. 

vast, so murky and silent, seems such an image of death in the 
midst of the great city's life, that " 

That Peacoat coughed again. He could not stand my holding 
forth. 

We were in a four-oared Thames Police Galley, lying on our oars 
in the deep shadow of South wark Bridge — under the corner arch 
on the Surrey side — having come down with the tide from Vaux- 
hall. We were fain to hold on pretty tight, though close in shore, 
for the river was swollen and the tide running down very strong. 
We were watching certain water-rats of human growth, and lay in 
the deep shade as quiet as mice ; our light hidden and our scraps 
of conversation carried on in whispers. Above us, the massive 
iron girders of the arch were faintly visible, and below us its pon- 
derous shadow seemed to sink down to the bottom of the stream. 

We had been lying here some half-an-hour. With our backs to 
the wind, it is true ; but the wind being in a determined temper 
blew straight through us, and would not take the trouble to go 
round. I would have boarded a fireship to get into action, and 
mildly suggested as much to my friend Pea. 

" ISIo doubt," says he as patiently as possible ; " but shore-going 
tactics wouldn't do with us. River thieves can always get rid of 
stolen property in a moment by dropping it overboard. We want 
to take them 7vith the property, so we lurk about and come out 
upon 'em sharp. If they see us or hear us, over it goes." 

Pea's wisdom being indisputable, there was nothing for it but to 
sit there and be blown through, for another half hour. The water- 
rats thinking it wise to abscond at the end of that time without 
commission of felony, we shot out, disappointed, with the tide. 

" Grim they look, don't they 1 " said Pea, seeing me glance over 
my shoulder at the lights upon the bridge, and downward at their 
long crooked reflections in the river. 

" Very," said I, " and make one think with a shudder of Suicides. 
What a night for a dreadful leap from that parapet ! " 

" Aye, but Waterloo's the favourite bridge for making holes in 
the water from," returned Pea. " By the bye — avast pulling, lads ! 
— would you like to speak to Waterloo on the subject 1 " 

My face confessing a surprised desire to have some friendly con- 
versation with Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea being the most 
obliging of men, we put about, pulled out of the force of the stream, 
and in place of going at great speed with the tide, began to strive 
against it, close in shore again. Every colour but black seemed to 
have departed from the world. The air was black, the water was 
black, the barges and hulks were black, the piles were black, the 
buildings were black, the shadows were only a deeper shade of 



DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 191 

black upon the black ground. Here and there, a coal fire in an 
iron cresset blazed upon a wharf ; but, one knew that it too had 
been black a little while ago, and would be black again soon. Un- 
comfortable rushes of water suggestive of gurgling and drowning, 
ghostly rattlings of iron chains, dismal clankings of discordant 
engines, formed the music that accompanied the dip of our oars 
and their rattling in the rullocks. Even the noises had a black 
sound to me — as the trumpet sounded red to the blind man. 

Our dexterous boat's crew made nothing of the tide, and pulled 
us gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea and I disembarked, 
passed under the black stone archway, and climbed the steep stone 
steps. Within a few feet of their summit. Pea presented me to 
Waterloo (or an eminent toll-taker representing that structure), 
muffled up to the eyes in a thick shawl, and amply great-coated and 
fur-capped. 

Waterloo received us with cordiality, and observed of the 
night that it was " a Searcher." He had been originally called 
the Strand Bridge, he informed us, but had received his present 
name at the suggestion of the proprietors, when Parliament had 
resolved to vote three hundred thousand pound for the erection of 
a monument in honour of the victory. Parliament took the hint 
(said Waterloo, with the least flavour of misanthropy) and saved 
the money. Of course the late Duke of Wellington was the first 
passenger, and of course he paid his penny, and of course a noble 
lord preserved it evermore. The Treadle and index at the toll- 
house (a most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible), 
were invented by Mr. Lethbridge, then property-man at Drury Lane 
Theatre. 

Was it suicide, we wanted to know about ? said Waterloo. Ha ! 
Well, he had seen a good deal of that work, he did assure us. He 
had prevented some. Why, one day a woman, poorish looking, 
came in between the hatch, slapped down a penny, and wanted to 
go on without the change ! Waterloo suspected this, and says to 
his mate, "give an eye to the gate," and bolted after her. She had 
got to the third seat between the piers, and was on the parapet just 
a going over, when he caught her and gave her in charge. At the 
police office next morning, she said it was along of trouble and a 
bad husband. 

"Likely enough," observed Waterloo to Pea and myself, as he 
adjusted his chin in his shawl. "There's a deal of trouble about, 
you see — and bad husbands too ! " 

Another time, a young woman at twelve o'clock in the open day, 
got through, darted along ; and, before Waterloo could come near 
her, jumped upon the parapet, and shot herself over sideways. 



192 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Alarm given, waterman put off, lucky escape. — Clothes buoyed her 
up. 

"This is where it is," said Waterloo. "If people jump off 
straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the 
bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor 
things ; that's what they are ; tJaey dash themselves upon the but- 
tress of the bridge. But you jump off," said Waterloo to me, 
putting his forefinger in a button-hole of my great-coat; "you 
jump off from the side of the bay, and you'll tumble, true, into the 
stream under the arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how 
you jump in ! There was poor Tom Steele from Dublin. Didn't 
dive ! Bless you, didn't dive at all ! Fell down so flat into the 
water, that he broke his breast-bone, and lived two days ! " 

I asked Waterloo if there were a favourite side of his bridge for 
this dreadful purpose ? He reflected, and thought yes, there was. 
He should say the Surrey side. 

Three decent looking men went through one day, soberly and 
quietly, and went on abreast for about a dozen yards : when the 
middle one, he sung out, all of a sudden, " Here goes. Jack ! " and 
was over in a minute. 

Body found? Well. Waterloo didn't rightly recollect about 
that. They were compositors, they were. 

He considered it astonishing how quick people were ! Why, 
there was a cab came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman 
in it, who looked, according to Waterloo's opinion of her, a little 
the worse for liquor ; very handsome she was too — very handsome. 
She stopped the cab at the gate, and said she'd pay the cabman 
then, which she did, though there was a little hankering about the 
fare, because at first she didn't seem quite to know where she wanted 
to be drove to. However, she paid the man, and the toll too, and 
looking Waterloo in the face (he thought she knew him, don't you 
see !) said, " I'll finish it somehow ! " Well, the cab went off, 
leaving Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was 
going on at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly 
staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing sev- 
eral people, and jumped over from the second opening. At the 
inquest it was giv' in evidence that she had been quarrelling at 
the Hero of Waterloo, and it was brought in jealousy. (One of the 
results of Waterloo's experience was, that there was a deal of jeal- 
ousy about.) 

"Do we ever get madmen V said Waterloo, in answer to an in- 
quiry of mine. "Well, we do get madmen. Yes, we have had 
one or two ; escaped from 'Sylums, I suppose. One hadn't a half- 
penny ; and because I wouldn't let him through, he went back a 



DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 193 

little way, stooped down, took a rim, and butted at the hatch like 
a ram. He smashed his hat rarely, but his head didn't seem no 
worse — in my opinion on account of his being wrong in it afore. 
Sometimes people haven't got a halfpenny. If they are really tired 
and poor we give 'em one and let 'em through. Other people will 
leave things — pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I have taken cravats 
and gloves, pocket-knives, tooth-picks, studs, shirt-pins, rings (gen- 
erally from young gents, early in the morning), but handkerchiefs is 
the general thing." 

" Regular customers ? " said Waterloo. " Lord, yes ! We have 
regular customers. One, such a worn-out used-up old file as you 
can scarcely picter, comes from ' the Surrey side as regular as ten 
o'clock at night comes ; and goes over, / think, to some flash house 
on the Middlesex side. He comes back, he does, as reg'lar as the 
clock strikes three in the morning, and then can hardly drag one of 
his old legs after the other. He always turns down the water-stairs, 
comes up again, and then goes on down the Waterloo road. He 
always does the same thing, and never varies a minute. Does it 
every night — even Sundays." 

I asked Waterloo if he had given his mind to the possibility of 
this particular customer going down the water-stairs at three o'clock 
some morning, and never coming up again 1 He didn't think that 
of him, he replied. In fact, it was W^aterloo's opinion, founded on 
his observation of that file, that he know'd a trick worth two of it. 

"There's another queer old customer," said Waterloo, "comes 
over, as punctual as the almanack, at eleven o'clock on the sixth 
of January, at eleven o'clock on the fifth of April, at eleven o'clock 
on the sixth of July, at eleven o'clock on the tenth of October. 
Drives a shaggy little, rough pony, in a sort of a rattle-trap arm- 
chair sort of a thing. White hair he has, and white whiskers, and 
mufiles himself up with all manner of shawls. He comes back 
again the same afternoon, and we never see more of him for three 
months. He is a captain in the na^^- — retired — wery old — 
wery odd — and served with Lord Nelson. He is particular about 
drawing his pension at Somerset House afore the clock strikes 
twelve every quarter. I have heerd say that he thinks it wouldn't 
be according to the Act of Parliament, if he didn't draw it afore 
twelve." 

Having related these anecdotes in a natural manner, which was 
the best warranty in the world for their genuine nature, our friend 
Waterloo was sinking deep into his shawl again, as having ex- 
hausted his communicative powers and taken in enough east wind, 
when my other friend Pea in a moment brought him to the surface 
by asking whether he had not been occasionally the subject of 



194 REPRINTED PIECES. 

assault and battery in the execution of his duty ? Waterloo recov- 
ering his spirits, instantly dashed into a new branch of his subject. 
We learnt how "both these teeth" ^ here he pointed to the places 
where two front teeth were not — were knocked out by an ugly 
customer who one night made a dash at him (Waterloo) while his 
(the ugly customer's) pal and coadjutor made a dash at the toll- 
taking apron where the money-pockets were ; how Waterloo, let- 
ting the teeth go (to Blazes, he observed indefinitely), grappled 
with the apron-seizer, permitting the ugly one to run away ; and 
how he saved the bank, and captured his man, and consigned him 
to fine and imprisonment. Also how, on another night, " a Cove " 
laid hold of W^aterloo, then presiding at the horse gate of his bridge, 
and threw him unceremoniously over his knee, having first cut his 
head open with his whip. How Waterloo "got right," and started 
after the Cove all down the Waterloo Road, through Stamford 
Street, and round to the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove 
"cut into" a public-house. How Waterloo cut in too; but how 
an aider and abettor of the Cove's, who happened to be taking a 
promiscuous drain at the bar, stopped Waterloo ; and the Cove 
cut out again, ran across the road down Holland Street, and where 
not, and into a beer-shop. How Waterloo breaking away from his 
detainer was close upon the Cove's heels, attended by no end of 
people who, seeing him running with the blood streaming down 
his face, thought something worse was "up," and roared Fire! 
and Murder ! on the hopeful chance of the matter in hand being 
one or both. How the Cove was ignominiously taken, in a shed 
where he had run to hide, and how at the Police Court they at 
first wanted to make a sessions job of it ; but eventually Waterloo 
was allowed to be " spoke to," and the Cove made it square with 
Waterloo by paying his doctor's bill (W. was laid up for a week) 
and giving him " Three, ten." Likewise we learnt what we had 
faintly suspected before, that your sporting amateur on the Derby 
day, albeit a captain, can be — "if he be," as Captain Bobadil 
observes, " so generously minded " — anything but a man of hon- 
our and a gentleman ; not sufficiently gratifying his nice sense of 
humour by the witty scattering of flour and rotten eggs on obtuse 
civilians, but requiring the further excitement of "bilking the 
toll," and " pitching into " Waterloo, and " cutting him about the 
head with his whip ; " finally being, when called upon to answer 
for the assault, what Waterloo described as "Minus," or, as I 
humbly conceived it, not to be found. Likewise did Waterloo 
inform us, in reply to my inquiries, admiringly and deferentially 
preferred through my friend Pea, that the takings at the Bridge 
had more than doubled in amount, since the reduction of the toll 



DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 195 

one-half. And being asked if the aforesaid takings included much 
bad money, Waterloo responded, with a look far deeper than the 
deepest part of the river, he should think not ! — and so retired 
into his shawl for the rest of the night. 

Then did Pea and I once more embark in our four-oared galley, 
and glide swiftly down the river with the tide. And while the 
shrewd East rasped and notched us, as with jagged razors, did my 
friend Pea impart to me confidences of interest relating to the 
Thames Police ; we betweenwhiles finding " duty boats " hanging 
in dark corners under banks, like weeds — our own was a " super- 
vision boat " — and they, as they reported " all right ! " flashing 
their hidden light on us, and we flashing ours on them. These 
duty boats had one sitter in each : an Inspector : and were rowed 
"Ran-dan," which — for the information of those who never grad- 
uated, as I was once proud to do, under a fireman- waterman and 
winner of Kean's Prize Wherry : who, in the course of his tuition^ 
took hundreds of gallons of rum and egg (at my expense) at the 
various houses of note above and below bridge ; not by any means 
because he liked it, but to cure a weakness in his liver, for which 
the faculty had particularly recommended it — may be explained 
as rowed by three men, two pulling an oar each, and one a pair of 
sculls. 

Thus, floating down our black highway, sullenly frowned upon 
by the knitted brows of Blackfriars, Southwark, and London, each 
in his lowering turn, I was shown by my friend Pea that there are, 
in the Thames Police Force, whose district extends from Battersea 
to Barking Creek, ninety-eight men, eight duty boats, and two 
supervision boats ; and that these go about so silently, and lie in 
wait in such dark places, and so seem to be nowhere, and so may 
be anywhere, that they have gradually become a police of preven- 
tion, keeping the river almost clear of any great crimes, even while 
the increased vigilance on shore has made it much harder than of 
yore to live by "thieving" in the streets. And as to the various 
kinds of water thieves, said my friend Pea, there were the Tier- 
rangers, who silently dropped alongside the tiers of shipping in the 
Pool, by night, and who, going to the companion-head, listened for 
two snores — snore number one, the skipper's ; snore number two, 
the mate's — -mates and skippers always snoring great guns, and 
being dead sure to be hard at it if they had turned in and were 
asleep. Hearing the double fire, down went the Rangers into the 
skippers' cabins ; groped for the skippers' inexpressibles, which it 
was the custom of those gentlemen to shake ofi", watch, money, 
braces, boots, and. all together, on the floor; and therewith made 
off as silently as might be. Then there were the Lumpers, or 



196 REPRINTED PIECES. 

labourers employed to unload vessels. They wore loose canvas 
jackets with a broad hem in the bottom, turned inside, so as to 
form a large circular pocket in which they could conceal, like clowns 
in pantomimes, packages of surprising sizes. A great deal of prop- 
erty was stolen in this manner (Pea confided to me) from steamers ; 
first, because steamers carry a larger number of small packages 
than other ships ; next, because of the extreme rapidity with which 
they are obliged to be unladen for their return voyages. The 
Lumpers dispose of their booty easily to marine store dealers, and 
the only remedy to be suggested is that marine store shops should 
be licensed, and thus brought under the eye of the police as rigidly 
as public-houses. Lumpers also smuggle goods ashore for the crews 
of vessels. The smuggling of tobacco is so considerable, that it is 
well worth the while of the sellers of smuggled tobacco to use 
hydraulic presses, to squeeze a single pound into a package small 
enough to be contained in an ordinary pocket. Next, said my 
friend Pea, there were the Truckers — less thieves than smugglers, 
whose business it was to land more considerable parcels of goods 
than the Lumpers could manage. They sometimes sold articles of 
grocery and so forth, to the crews, in order to cloak their real call- 
ing, and get aboard without suspicion. Many of them had boats 
of their own, and made money. Besides these, there were the 
Dredgermen, who, under pretence of dredging up coals and such 
like from the bottom of the river, hung about barges and other un- 
decked craft, and when they saw an opportunity, threw any prop- 
erty they could lay their hands on overboard : in order slyly to 
dredge it up when the vessel was gone. Sometimes, they dexter- 
ously used their dredges to whip away anything that might lie 
within reach. Some of them were mighty neat at this, and the 
accomplishment was called dry dredging. Then, there was a vast 
deal of property, such as copper nails, sheathing, hardwood, &c., 
habitually brought away by shipwrights and other workmen from 
their employers' yards, and disposed of to marine store dealers, 
many of whom escaped detection through hard swearing, and their 
extraordinary artful ways of accounting for the possession of stolen 
property. Likewise, there were special-pleading practitioners, for 
whom barges "drifted away of their own selves" — they having 
no hand in it, except first cutting them loose, and afterwards plun- 
dering them — innocents, meaning no harm, who had the misfort- 
une to observe those foundlings wandering about the Tliames. 

We were now going in and out, with little noise and great nicety, 
among the tiers of shipping, whose many hulls, lying close together, 
rose out of the water like black streets. Here and there, a Scotch, 
an Irish, or a foreign steamer, getting up her steam as the tide 



THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 197 

made, looked, with her great chimney and high sides, like a quiet 
factory among the common buildings. Now, the streets opened 
into clearer spaces, now contracted into alleys ; but the tiers were 
so like houses, in tlie dark, that I could almost have believed my- 
self in the narrower byeways of Venice. Everything was wonder- 
fully still ; for, it wanted full three hours of flood, and nothing 
seemed awake but a dog here and there. 

So we took no Tier-rangers captive, nor any Lumpers, nor 
Truckers, nor Dredgermen, nor other evil-disposed person or per- 
sons ; but went ashore at Wapping, where the old Thames Police 
oflice is now a station-house, and where the old Court, with its 
cabin windows looking on the river, is a quaint charge room : with 
nothing worse in it usually than a stuffed cat in a glass case, and 
a portrait, pleasant to behold, of a rare old Thames Police oflficer, 
Mr. Superintendent Evans, now succeeded by his son. We looked 
over the charge books, admirably kept, and found the prevention 
so good that there were not five hundred entries (including drunken 
and disorderly) in a whole year. Then, w^e looked into the store- 
room ; where there was an oakum smell, and a nautical seasoning 
of dreadnought clothing, rope yarn, boat hooks, sculls and oars, 
spare stretchers, rudders, pistols, cutlasses, and the like. Then, 
into the cell, aired high up in the wooden wall through an opening 
like a kitchen plate-rack : wherein there was a drunken man, not 
at all warm, and very wishful to know if it were morning yet. 
Then, into a better sort of watch and ward room, where there was 
a squadron of stone bottles drawn up, ready to be filled with hot 
water and applied to any unfortunate creature who might be 
brought in apparently drowned. Finally, we shook hands with 
our worthy friend Pea, and ran all the way to Tower Hill, under 
strong Police suspicion occasionally, before we got warm. 



Household Words, Vol. 7, No. 168, June 11, 1853. 

^ THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 

To come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the 
least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious 
nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire- 
water, and me a pale-face, wholly fail to reconcile me to him. I 
don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a 
savage a something highly desirable to be civilised off" the face of 
the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form 



198 REPRINTED PIECES. 

of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking, stamp- 
ing, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me, whether he 
sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees through the 
lobes of his ears, or bird's feathers in his head ; whether he flattens 
his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the breadth 
of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights, or blackens 
his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red and the 
other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with 
fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to whichsoever of these 
agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage — - cruel, false, thievish, mur- 
derous ; addicted more or less to grease, entrails, and beastly cus- 
toms; a wild animal with the questionable gift of boasting; a 
conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug. 

Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk 
about him, as they talk about the good old times ; how they will 
regret his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, 
from such and such lands where his absence is a blessed relief and 
an indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds 
of any influence that can exalt humanity ; how, even with the evi- 
dence of himself before them, they will either be determined to 
believe, or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into believing, 
that he is something which their five senses tell them he is not. 

There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway 
Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic earnest man, who had lived 
among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and 
who had written a picturesque and glowing book about them. 
With his party of Indians squatting and spitting on the table 
before him, or dancing their miserable jigs after their own dreary 
manner, he called, in all good faith, upon his civilised audience to 
take notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and 
the exquisite expression of their pantomime ; and his civilised audi- 
ence, in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as mere 
animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale and 
very poorly formed ; and as men and women possessing any 
power of truthful dramatic expression by means of action, they 
were no better than the chorus at an Italian Opera in England — 
and would have been worse if such a thing were possible. 

Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers 
on natural history found him out long ago. Buffon knew what 
he was, and showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his 
women, and how it happens (Heaven be praised !) that his race is 
spare in numbers. For evidence of the quality of his moral nature, 
pass himself for a moment and refer to his " faithful dog." Has 
he ever improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his nobility first 



THE NOBLE SAVAGE, 199 

ran wild in woods, and was brought down (at a very long shot) 
by Pope ? Or does the animal that is the friend of man, always 
degenerate in his low society? 

It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the 
new thing ; it is the whimpering over him with maudlin admira- 
tion, and the affecting to regret him, and the drawing of any com- 
parison of advantage between the blemishes of civilisation and the 
tenor of his swinish life. There may have been a change now and 
then in those diseased absurdities, but there is none in him. 

Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two 
women who have been exhibited about England for some years. 
Are the majority of persons — who remember the horrid little 
leader of that party in his festering bundle of hides, with his filth 
and his antipathy to water, and his straddled legs, and his odious 
eyes shaded by his brutal hand, and his cry of " Qu-u-u-u-aaa ! " 
(Bosjesman for something desperately insulting I have no doubt) — 
conscious of an afiectionate yearning towards that noble savage, or 
is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and abjure 
him ? I have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state 
that, setting aside that stage of the entertainment when he coun- 
terfeited the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his 
head on his hand and shaking his left leg — at which time I think 
it would have been justifiable homicide to slay him — I have never 
seen that group sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round their 
brazier, but I have sincerely desired that something might happen 
to the charcoal smouldering therein, which would cause the im- 
mediate suffocation of the whole of tlie noble strangers. 

There is at present a party of Zulu Kafiirs exhibiting at the 
St. George's Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These noble 
savages are represented in a most agreeable manner ; they are seen 
in an elegant theatre, fitted with appropriate scenery of great beauty, 
and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture, 
delivered with a modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar 
exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped 
than such of their predecessors as I have referred to ; and they are 
rather picturesque to the eye, though far from odoriferous to the 
nose. What a visitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings 
might suppose these noblemen to be about, when they give vent to 
that pantomimic expression which is quite settled to be the natural 
gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly conceive ; for it is so 
much too luminous for my personal civilisation that it conveys no 
idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and raving, 
remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire uniformity. 
But let us — with the interpreter's assistance, of which I for one 



200 REPRINTED PIECES. 

stand so much in need — see what the noble savage does in Zulu 
Kaffirland. 

The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he sub- 
mits his life and limbs without a murmur or question, and whose 
whole life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood ; but who, after kill- 
ing incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and friends, the 
moment a grey hair appears on his head. All the noble savage's 
wars with his fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything 
else) are wars of extermination — which is the best thing I know 
of him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. 
He has no moral feelings of any kind, sort, or description ; and his 
"mission" may be summed up as simply diabolical. 

The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of 
course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he appears before the 
kennel of the gentleman whom he has selected for his father-in-law, 
attended by a party of male friends of a very strong flavour, who 
screech and whistle and stamp an offer of so many cows for the 
young lady's hand. The chosen father-in-law — also supported by 
a high-flavoured party of male friends — screeches, whistles, and 
yells (being seated on the ground, he can't stamp) that there never 
was such a daughter in the market as his daughter, and that he 
must have six more cows. The son-in-law and his select circle of 
backers, screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that they will 
give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, overpaid 
at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The 
whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic 
convulsions, and screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling to- 
gether — and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose 
charms are not to be thought of without a shudder) — the noble 
savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal leaps 
at him by way of congratulation. 

When the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and men- 
tions the circumstance to his friends, it is immediately perceived 
that he is under the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, 
called an Imyanger or Witch Doctor, is immediately sent for to 
Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out the witch. The male in- 
habitants of the kraal being seated on the ground, the learned 
doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and administers a dance 
of a most terrific nature, during the exhibition of which remedy he 
incessantly gnashes his teeth, and howls : — "I am the original 
physician to Nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow yow ! No con- 
nection with any other establishment. Till till till ! All other 
Umtargarties are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo ! but I per- 
ceive here a genuine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh ! in 



THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 201 

whose blood I, the original Imyanger and Nookerer, Blizzenim Boo ! 
will Avash these bear's claws of mine. yow yow yow ! " All this 
time the learned physician is looking out among the attentive faces 
for some unfortunate man who owes him a cow, or who has given 
him any small offence, or against whom, without offence, he has 
conceived a spite. Him he never fails to Nooker as the Umtar- 
gartie, and he is instantly killed. In the absence of such an in- 
dividual, the usual practice is to Nooker the quietest and most 
gentlemanly person in company. But the nookering is invariably 
followed on the spot by the butchering. 

Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly 
interested, and the diminution of whose numbers, by rum and 
small-pox, greatly affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though 
much more appalling and disgusting in its odious details. 

The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, 
and the noble savage being asleep in the shade, the chief has some- 
times the condescension to come forth, and lighten the labour by 
looking at it. On these occasions, he seats himself in his own 
savage chair, and is attended by his shield-bearer: who holds over 
his head a shield of cowhide — in shape like an immense mussel 
shell — fearfully and wonderfully, after the manner of a theatrical 
supernumerary. But lest the great man should forget his great- 
ness in the contemplation of the humble works of agriculture, there 
suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, called a 
Praiser. This literary gentleman wears a leopard's head over his 
own, and a dress of tigers' tails ; he has the appearance of having 
come express on his hind legs from the Zoological Gardens ; and 
he incontinently strikes up the chief's praises, plunging and tearing 
all the while. There is a frantic wickedness in this brute's man- 
ner of worrying the air, and gnashing out, "0 what a "delightful 
chief he is ! what a delicious quantity of blood he sheds ! 
how majestically he laps it up ! O how charmingly cruel he is ! 
how he tears the flesh of his enemies and crunches the bones ! 
how like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf and the bear he is ! 
O, row row row row, how fond I am of him ! " which might tempt 
the Society of Friends to charge at a hand-gallop into the Swartz- 
Kop location and exterminate the whole kraal. 

When war is afoot among the noble savages — which is always 
— the chief holds a council to ascertain whether it is the opinion 
of his brothers and friends in general that the enemy shall be exter- 
minated. On this occasion, after the performance of an Umsebeuza, 
or war song, — which is exactly like all the other songs, — the 
chief makes a speech to his brothers and friends, arranged in single 
file. No particular order is observed during the delivery of this 



202 REPRINTED PIECES. 

address, but every gentleman who finds himself excited by the sub- 
ject, instead of crying "Hear, hear!" as is the custom with us, 
darts from the rank and tramples out the life, or crashes the skull, 
or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or breaks the limbs, or 
performs a whirlwind of atrocities on the body, of an imaginary 
enemy. Several gentlemen becoming thus excited at once, and 
pounding away without the least regard to the orator, that illustri- 
ous person is rather in the position of an orator in an Irish House 
of Commons. But, several of these scenes of savage life bear a 
strong generic resemblance to an Irish election, and I think would 
be extremely well received and understood at Cork. 

In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost 
possible extent about himself ; from which (to turn him to some 
civilised account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of 
the most offensive and contemptible littlenesses a civilised man can 
exhibit, so it is really incompatible with the interchange of ideas ; 
inasmuch as if we all talked about ourselves we should soon have 
no listeners, and must be all yelKng and screeching at once on our 
own separate accounts : making society hideous. It is my opinion 
that if we retained in us anything of the noble savage, we could 
not get rid of it too soon. But the fact is clearly otherwise. Upon 
the wife and dowry question, substituting coin for cows, we have 
assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir left. The endurance of des- 
potism is one great distinguishing mark of a savage always. The 
improving world has quite got the better of that too. In like 
manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Theatre Fran^ais a highly 
civilised theatre ; and we shall never hear, and never have heard 
in these later days (of course) of the Praiser there. No, no, civi- 
lised poets have better work to do. As to Nookering Umtargarties, 
there are no pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no European 
powers to Nooker them ; that would be mere spydom, subornation, 
small malice, superstition, and false pretence. And as to private 
Umtargarties, are we not in the year eighteen hundred and fifty- 
three, with spirits rapping at our doors 1 

To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have any- 
thing to learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to avoid. His 
virtues are a fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, non- 
sense. We have no greater justification for being cruel to the 
miserable object, than for being cruel to a William Shakspeare 
or an Isaac Newton ; but he passes away before an immeasur- 
ably better and higher power than ever ran wild in any earthly 
woods, and the world will be all the better when his place knows 
him no more. 



FRAUDS ON THE FAIRIES. 203 

Household Words, Vol. 8, No. 97, Oct. 1, 1853. 
=* FRAUDS ON THE FAIRIES. 

We may assume that we are not singular in entertaining a very- 
great tenderness for the fairy literature of our childhood. What 
enchanted us then, and is captivating a million of young fancies 
now, has, at the same blessed time of life, enchanted vast hosts of 
men and women who have done their long day's work, and laid 
their grey heads down to rest. It would be hard to estimate the 
amount of gentleness and mercy that has made its way among us 
through these slight channels. Forbearance, courtesy, consideration 
for the poor and aged, kind treatment of animals, the love of nature, 
abhorrence of tyranny and brute force — many such good things have 
been first nourished in the child's heart by this powerful aid. It 
has greatly helped to keep us, in some sense, ever young, by 
preserving through our worldly ways one slender track not over- 
grown with weeds, where we may walk with children, sharing 
their delights. 

In an utilitarian age, of all other times, it is a matter of grave 
importance that Fairy tales should be respected. Our English red 
tape is too magnificently red ever to be employed in the tying up 
of such trifles, but every one who has considered the subject knows 
full well that a nation without fancy, without some romance, never did, 
never can, never will, hold a great place under the sun. The theatre, 
having done its worst to destroy these admirable fictions — and 
having in a most exemplary manner destroyed itself, its artists, 
and its audiences, in that perversion of its duty — it becomes 
doubly important that the little books themselves, nurseries of 
fancy as they are, should be preserved. To preserve them in their 
usefulness, they must be as much preserved in their simplicity, 
and purity, and innocent extravagance, as if they were actual fact. 
Whosoever alters them to suit his own opinions, whatever they 
are, is guilty, to our thinking, of an act of presumption, and 
appropriates to himself what does not belong to him. 

We have lately observed, with pain, the intrusion of a Whole 
Hog of unwieldy dimensions into the fairy flower garden. The 
rooting of the animal among the roses would in itself have 
awakened in us nothing but indignation ; our pain arises from 
his being violently driven in by a man of genius, our own beloved 
friend, Mr. George Cruikshank. That incomparable artist is, 
of all men, the last who should lay his exquisite hand on fairy 
text. In his own art he understands it so perfectly, and illustrates 



204 REPRINTED PIECES. 

it so beautifully, so humorously, so wisely, that he should never 
lay down his etching needle to " edit " the Ogre, to whom with 
that little instrument he can render such extraordinary justice. 
But, to " editing " Ogres, and Hop-o'-my-thumbs, and their families, 
our dear moralist has in a rash moment taken, as a means of propa- 
gating the doctrines of Total Abstinence, Prohibition of the sale 
of spirituous liquors. Free Trade, and Popular Education. For the 
introduction of these topics, he has altered the text of a fairy 
story ; and against his right to do any such thing we protest with 
all our might and main. Of his likewise altering it to advertise 
that excellent series of plates, " The Bottle," we say nothing more 
than that we foresee a new and improved edition of Goody Two 
Shoes, edited by E. Moses and Son ; of the Dervish with the box 
of ointment, edited by Professor Holloway ; and of Jack '^.nd the 
Beanstalk, edited by Mary Wedlake, the popular authoress of " Do 
you bruise your oats yet ? " 

Now, it makes not the least difference to our objection whether 
we agree or disagree with our worthy friend, Mr. Cruikshank, in 
the opinions he interpolates upon an old fairy story. Whether 
good or bad in themselves, they are, in that relation, like the 
famous definition of a weed ; a thing growing up in a wrong place. 
He has no greater moral justification in altering the harmless little 
books than we should have in altering his best etchings. If such 
a precedent were followed we must soon become disgusted with 
the old stories into which modern personages so obtruded them- 
selves, and the stories themselves must soon be lost. With seven 
Blue Beards in the field, each coming at a galop from his own 
platform mounted on a foaming hobby, a generation or two hence 
would not know which was which, and the great original Blue 
Beard would be confounded with the counterfeits. Imagine a 
Total Abstinence edition of Robinson Crusoe, with the rum left 
out. Imaghie a Peace edition, with the gunpowder left out, and 
the rum left in. Imagine a Vegetarian edition, with the goat's 
flesh left out. Imagine a Kentucky edition, to introduce a flogging 
of that 'tarnal old nigger Friday, twice a week. Imagine an 
Aborigines Protection Society edition, to deny the cannibalism and 
make Robinson embrace the amiable savages whenever they landed. 
Robinson Crusoe would be edited out of his island in a hundred 
years, and the island would be swallowed up in the editorial ocean. 

Among the other learned professions we have now the Platform 
profession, chiefly exercised by a new and meritorious class of 
commercial travellers who go about to take the sense of meetings 
on various articles : some, of a very superior description : some, 
not quite so good. Let us write the story of Cinderella, " edited " 



FEAUDS ON THE FAIRIES. 205 

by one of these gentlemen, doing a good stroke of business, and 
having a rather extensive mission. 

Once upon a time, a rich man and his wife were the parents of a 
lovely daughter. She was a beautiful child, and became, at her 
own desire, a member of the Juvenile Bands of Hope when she was 
only four years of age. When this child was only nine years of age 
her mother died, and all the Juvenile Bands of Hope in her district 

— the Ce^^tral district, number five hundred and twenty-seven — 
formed in a procession of two and two, amounting to fifteen hun- 
dred, and followed her to the grave, singing chorus Number forty- 
two, " come," etc. This grave was outside the town, and under 
the direction of the Local Board of Health, which reported at cer- 
tain stated intervals to the General Board of Health, Whitehall. 

The motherless little girl was very sorrowful for the loss of her 
mother, and so was her father too, at first ; but, after a year was 
over, he married again — a very cross widow lady, with two proud 
tyrannical daughters as cross as herself He was aware that he 
could have made his marriage with this lady a civil process by simply 
making a declaration before a Registrar ; but he was averse to this 
course on religious grounds, and, being a member of the Montgolfian 
persuasion, was married according to the ceremonies of that respect- 
able church by the Reverend Jared Jocks, who improved the occasion. 

He did not live long with his disagreeable wife. Having been 
shamefully accustomed to shave with warm water instead of cold, 
which he ought to have used (see Medical Appendix C. and C), 
his undermined constitution could not bear up against her temper, 
and he soon died. Then, this orphan was cruelly treated by her 
stepmother and the two daughters, and was forced to do the dirti- 
est of the kitchen work ; to scour the saucepans, wash the dishes, 
and light the fires — which did not consume their own smoke, but 
emitted a dark vapour prejudicial to the bronchial tubes. The 
only warm place in the house where she was free from ill-treatment 
was the kitchen chimney-corner ; and as she used to sit down there, 
among the cinders, when her work was done, the proud fine sisters 
gave her the name of Cinderella. 

About this time, the King of the land, who never made war 
against anybody, and allowed everybody to make war against him 

— which was the reason why his subjects were the greatest manu- 
facturers on earth, and always lived in security and peace — gave 
a great feast, which was to last two days. This splendid banquet 
was to consist entirely of artichokes and gruel ; and from among 
those who were invited to it, and to hear the delightful speeches 
after dinner, the King's son was to choose a bride for himself. The 



206 REPRINTED PIECES. 

proud fine sisters were invited, but nobody knew anything about 
poor Cinderella, and she was to stay at home. 

She was so sweet-tempered, however, that she assisted the haughty 
creatures to dress, and bestowed her admirable taste upon them as 
freely as if they had been kind to her. Neither did she laugh when 
they broke seventeen stay-laces in dressing ; for, although she wore 
no stays herself, being sufficiently acquainted with the anatomy of 
the human figure to be aware of the destructive eff'ects of tight-lac- 
ing," she always reserved her opinions on that subject for the Re- 
generative Record (price three half-pence in a neat wrapper), which 
all good people take in, and to which she was a contributor. 

At length the wished-for moment arrived, and the proud fine sis- 
ters swept away to the feast and speeches, leaving Cinderella in the 
chimney-corner. But, she could always occupy her mind with the 
general question of the Ocean Penny Postage, and she liad in her 
pocket an unread Oration on that subject, made by the well-known 
Orator, Nehemiah Nicks. She was lost in the fervid eloquence of 
that talented apostle when she became aware of the presence of one of 
those female relatives which (it may not be generally known) it is not 
lawful for a man to marry. I allude to her grandmother. 

"Why so solitary, my child*?" said the old lady to Cinderella. 

"Alas, grandmother," returned the poor girl, " my sisters have 
gone to the feast and speeches, and here sit I in the ashes, Cinder- 
ella ! " 

"Never," cried the old lady with animation, "shall one of the 
Band of Hope despair. Run into the garden, my dear, and fetch 
me an American Pumpkin ! American, because in some parts of 
that independent country, there are prohibitory laws against the 
sale of alcoholic drinks in any form. Also, because America pro- 
duced (among many great pumpkins) the glory of her sex, Mrs. 
Colonel Bloomer. None but an American Pumpkin will do, my 
child." 

Cinderella ran into the garden, and brought the largest American 
pumpkin she could find. This virtuously democratic vegetable her 
grandmother immediately changed into a splendid coach. Then, 
she sent her for six mice from the mouse-trap which she changed into 
prancing horses, free from the obnoxious and oppressive post-horse 
duty. Then, to the rat-trap in the stable for a rat, which she 
changed to a state-coachman, not amenable to the iniquitous assessed 
taxes. Then, to look behind a watering-pot for six lizards, which she 
changed into six footmen, each with a petition in his hand ready to 
present to the Prince, signed by fifty thousand persons, in favour of 
the early closing movement. 

" But, grandmother," said Cinderella, stopping in the midst of 



FRAUDS ON THE FAIRIES. 207 

her delight, and looking at her clothes, " how can I go to the pal- 
ace in these miserable rags ? " 

" Be not uneasy about that, my dear," returned her grandmother. 

Upon which the old lady touched her with her wand, her rags 
disappeared, and she was beautifully dressed. Not in the present 
costume of the female sex, which has been proved to be at once 
grossly immodest and absurdly inconvenient, but in rich sky-blue 
satin pantaloons gathered at the ankle, a puce-coloured satin pelisse 
sprinkled with silver flowers, and a very broad Leghorn hat. The 
hat was chastely ornamented with a rainbow-coloured ribbon hang- 
ing in two bell-pulls down the back ; the pantaloons were orna- 
mented with a golden stripe; and the effect of the whole was 
unspeakably sensible, feminine, and retiring. Lastly, the old lady 
put on Cinderella's feet a pair of shoes made of glass : observing 
that but for the abolition of the duty on that article, it never could 
have been devoted to such a purpose ; the effect of all such taxes 
being to cramp invention, and embarrass the producer, to the mani- 
fest injury of the consumer. When the old lady had made these 
wise remarks, she dismissed Cinderella to the feast and speeches, 
charging her by no means to remain after twelve o'clock at night. 

The arrival of Cinderella at the Monster Gathering produced a 
great excitement. As a delegate from the United States had just 
moved that the King do take the chair, and as the motion had been 
seconded and carried unanimously, the King himself could not go 
forth to receive her. But His Royal Highness the Prince (who was 
to move the second resolution), went to the door to hand her from 
her carriage. This virtuous Prince, being completely covered from 
head to foot with Total Abstinence Medals, shone as if he were at- 
tired in complete armour ; while the inspiring strains of the Peace 
Brass Band in the gallery (composed of the Lambkin Family, eigh- 
teen in number, who cannot be too much encouraged) awakened 
additional enthusiasm. 

The King's son handed Cinderella to one of the reserved seats for 
pink tickets, on the platform, and fell in love with her immediately. 
His appetite deserted him ; he scarcely tasted his artichokes, and 
merely trifled with his gruel. When the speeches began, and Cin- 
derella, wrapped in the eloquence of the two inspired delegates who 
occupied the entire evening in speaking to the first Resolution, oc- 
casionally cried, " Hear, hear ! " the sweetness of her voice com- 
pleted her conquest of the Prince's heart. But, indeed the whole 
male portion of the assembly loved her — and doubtless would have 
done so, even if she had been less beautiful, in consequence of the 
contrast which her dress presented to the bold and ridiculous gar- 
ments of the other ladies. 



208 REPRINTED PIECES. 

At a quarter before twelve the second inspired delegate having 
drunk all the water in the decanter, and fainted away, the King 
put the question, " That this Meeting do now adjourn until to- 
morrow." Those who were of that opinion holding up their hands, 
and then those who were of the contrary, theirs, there appeared an 
immense majority in favour of the resolution, which was conse- 
quently carried. Cinderella got home in safety and heard nothing 
all that night, or all next day, but the praises of the unknown lady 
with the sky-blue satin pantaloons. 

When the time for the feast and speeches came round again, the 
cross stepmother and the proud fine daughters went out in good 
time to secure their places. As soon as they were gone, Cinder- 
ella's grandmother returned and changed her as before. Amid a 
blast of welcome from the Lambkin family, she was again handed 
to the pink seat on the platform by His Royal Highness. 

This gifted Prince was a powerful speaker, and had the evening 
before him. He rose at precisely ten minutes before eight, and was 
greeted with tumultous cheers and waving of handkerchiefs. When 
the excitement had in some degree subsided, he proceeded to address 
the meeting : who were never tired of listening to the speeches, as 
no good people ever are. He held them enthralled for four hours 
and a quarter. Cinderella forgot the time, and hurried away so 
when she heard the first stroke of twelve, that her beautiful dress 
changed back to her old rags at the door, and she left one of her 
glass shoes behind. The Prince took it up, and vowed — that is, 
made a declaration before a magistrate ; for he objected on principle 
to the multiplying of oaths — that he would only marry the charm- 
ing creature to whom that shoe belonged. 

He accordingly caused an advertisement to that effect to be in- 
serted in all the newspapers ; for, the advertisement duty, an im- 
post most unjust in principle and most unfair in operation, did not 
exist in that country ; neither was the stamp on newspapers known 
in that land — which had as many newspapers as the United States, 
and got as much good out of them. Innumerable ladies answered 
the advertisement and pretended that the shoe was theirs; but, 
every one of them was unable to get her foot into it. The proud 
fine sisters answered it, and tried their feet with no greater success. 
Then, Cinderella, who had answered it too, came forward amidst 
their scornful jeers, and the shoe slipped on in a moment. It is a 
remarkable tribute to the improved and sensible fashion of the dress 
her grandmother had given her, that if she had not worn it the 
Prince would probably never have seen her feet. 

The marriage was solemnised with great rejoicing. When the 
honeymoon was over, the King retired from public life, and was 



THE LONG VOYAGE. 209 

succeeded by the Prince. Cinderella, being now a queen, applied 
herself to the government of the country on enlightened, liberal, and 
free principles. All the people who ate anything she did not eat, 
or who drank anything she did not drink, were imprisoned for life. 
All the newspaper offices from which any doctrine proceeded that 
was not her doctrine, were burnt down. All the public speakers 
proved to demonstration that if there were any individual on the 
face of the earth who differed from them in anything, that individ- 
ual was a designing ruffian and an abandoned monster. She also 
threw open the right of voting, and of being elected to public offices, 
and of making the laws, to the whole of her sex ; who thus came 
to be always gloriously occupied with public life, and whom nobody 
dared to love. And they all lived happily ever afterwards. 

Frauds on the Fairies once permitted, we see little reason why 
they may not come to this, and great reason why they may. The 
Vicar of Wakefield was wisest when he was tired of being always 
wise. The world is too much with us, early and late. Leave this 
precious old escape from it, alone. 



Household Words, Vol. 8, No. 197, Dec. 31, 1853. 
THE LONG VOYAGE. 

When the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against 
the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I have 
read in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a strong 
fascination for my mind from my earliest childhood ; and I wonder 
it should have come to pass that I never have been round the 
world, never have been shipwrecked, ice-environed, tomahawked, 
or eaten. 

Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, 
I find incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and 
longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but 
appear and vanish as they will — "come like shadows, so depart." 
Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks over 
the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship, 
and sees the first uncertain glimmer of the light, " rising and fall- 
ing with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some fisherman," 
which is the shining star of a new world. Bruce is caged in 
Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall often startle 
him out of his sleep at home when years have passed away. 
Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey — 



210 REPRINTED PIECES. 

would that it had been his last ! — lies perishing of hunger with 
his brave companions : each emaciated figure stretched upon its 
miserable bed without the power to rise : all, dividing the weary- 
days between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones 
at home, and conversation on the pleasures of eating; the last- 
named topic being ever present to them, likewise, in their dreams. 
All the African travellers, wayworn, solitary and sad, submit them- 
selves again to drunken, murderous, man-selling despots, of the 
lowest order of humanity ; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree 
and succoured by a woman, gratefully remembers how his Good 
Samaritan has always come to him in woman's shape, the wide 
world over. 

A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern some 
traces of a rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful story of travel 
derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a parlia- 
mentary blue-book. A convict is its chief figure, and this man 
escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an 
island, and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their 
way is by a rugged and precipitous sea-shore, and they have no 
earthly hope of ultimate escape, for the party of soldiers de- 
spatched by an easier course to cut them off, must inevitably arrive 
at their distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by 
any hazard they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they 
all must have foreseen, besets them early in their course. Some of 
the party die and are eaten ; some are murdered by the rest and 
eaten. This one awful creature eats his fill, and sustains his 
strength, and lives on to be recaptured and taken back. The 
unrelatable experiences through which he has passed have been so 
tremendous, that he is not hanged as he might be, but goes back 
to his old chained-gang work. A little time, and he tempts one 
other prisoner away, seizes another boat, and flies once more — 
necessarily in the old hopeless direction, for he can take no other. 
He is soon cut off, and met by the pursuing party face to face, 
upon the beach. He is alone. In his former journey he acquired 
an inappeasable relish for his dreadful food. He urged the new 
man away, expressly to kill him and eat him. In the pockets on 
one side of his coarse convict-dress, are portions of the man's body, 
on which he is regaling ; in the pockets on the other side is an un- 
touched store of salted pork (stolen before he left the island) for 
which he has no appetite. He is taken back, and he is hanged. 
But I shall never see that sea-beach on the wall or in the tire, 
without him, solitary monster, eating as he prowls along, while 
the sea rages and rises at him. 

Captain Bligh (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary 



THE LONG VOYAGE. 211 

power there could scarcely be) is handed over the side of the 
Bounty, and turned adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, by 
order of Fletcher Christian, one of his officers, at this very minute. 
Another flash of my fire, and "Thursday October Christian," five- 
and-twenty years of age, son of the dead and gone Fletcher by a 
savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty's ship Briton, hove-to off" 
Pitcairn's Island; says his simple grace before eating, in good 
English ; and knows that a pretty little animal on board is called 
a dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange creat- 
ures from his father and the other mutineers, grown grey under the 
shade of the bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost country far 
away. 

See the Halsewell, East Indiaman outward bound, driving 
madly on a January night towards the rocks near Seacombe, on 
the island of Purbeck ! The captain's two dear daughters are 
aboard, and five other ladies. The ship has been driving many 
hours, has seven feet water in her hold, and her mainmast has 
been cut away. The description of her loss, familiar to me from 
my early boyhood, seems to be read aloud as she rushes to her 
destiny. 

"About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the 
ship still driving, and approaching very fast to the shore, Mr. Henry 
Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the 
captain then was. Another conversation taking place. Captain 
Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his be- 
loved daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could devise 
any method of saving them. On his answering with great concern, 
that he feared it would be impossible, but that their only chance 
would be to wait for morning, the captain lifted up his hands in 
silent and distressful ejaculation. 

" At this dreadful moment, the ship struck, with such violence 
as to dash the heads of those standing in the cuddy against the 
deck above them, and the shock was accompanied by a shriek of 
horror that burst at one instant from every quarter of the ship. 

"Many of the seamen, who had been remarkably inattentive 
and remiss in their duty during great part of the storm, now 
poured upon deck, where no exertions of the officers could keep 
them, while their assistance might have been useful. They had 
actually skulked in their hammocks, leaving the working of the 
pumps and other necessary labours to the officers of the ship, and 
the soldiers, who had made uncommon exertions. Roused by a 
sense of their danger, the same seamen, at this moment, in frantic 
exclamations, demanded of heaven and their fellow-sufferers that 



212 REPRINTED PIECES. 

succour which their own efiforts, timely made, might possibly have 
procured. 

" The ship continued to beat on the rocks ; and soon bilging, 
fell with her broadside towards the shore. When she struck, a 
number of the men climbed up the ensign-staff, under an appre- 
hension of her immediately going to pieces. 

" Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the 
best advice whicli could be given ; he recommended that all should 
come to the side of the ship lying lowest on the rocks, and singly 
to take the opportunities which might then offer, of escaping to 
the shore. 

"Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the 
safety of the desponding crew, he returned to the round-house, 
where, by this time, all the passengers and most of the officers had 
assembled. The latter were employed in offering consolation to the 
unfortunate ladies ; and, with unparalleled magnanimity, suffering 
their compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their mis- 
fortunes to prevail over the sense of their own danger. 

"In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, 
by assurances of his opinion, that the ship would hold together till 
the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, observing 
one of the young gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and 
frequently cry that the ship was parting, cheerfully bid him be 
quiet, remarking that though the ship should go to pieces, he would 
not, but would be safe enough. 

"It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this 
deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place Avhere it 
happened. The Haleswell struck on the rocks at a part of the 
shore where the cliff is of vast height, and rises almost perpendic- 
ular from its base. But at this particular spot, the foot of the 
cliff is excavated into a cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and 
of breadth equal to the length of a large ship. The sides of the 
cavern are so nearly upright, as to be of extremely difficult access ; 
and the bottom is strewed with sharp and uneven rocks, which 
seem, by some convulsion of the earth, to have been detached from 
its roof. 

" The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth of this 
cavern, with her whole length stretched almost from side to side of 
it. But when she struck, it was too dark for the unfortunate per- 
sons on board to discover the real magnitude of the danger, and the 
extreme horror of such a situation. 

" In addition to the company already in the round-house, they 
had admitted three black women and two soldiers' wives; who, 
with the husband of one of them, had been allowed to come in, 



THE LONG VOYAGE. 213 

though the seamen, who had tumultuously demanded entrance to 
get the lights, had been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and 
Mr. Brimer, the third and fifth mates. The numbers there were, 
therefore, now increased to near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a 
chair, a cot, or some other movable, with a daughter on each side, 
whom he alternately pressed to his affectionate breast. The rest 
'of the melancholy assembly were seated on the deck, which was 
strewed with musical instruments, and the wreck of furniture and 
otlier articles. 

" Here also Mr. Meriton, after having cut several wax-candles in 
pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of the round-house, and 
lighted up all the glass lanthorns he could find, took his seat, 
intending to wait the approach of dawn ; and then assist the part- 
ners of his dangers to escape. But, observing that the poor ladies 
appeared parched and exhausted, he brought a basket of oranges 
and prevailed on some of them to refresh themselves by sucking a 
little of the juice. At this time they were all tolerably composed, 
except Miss Mansel, who was in hysteric fits on the floor of the 
deck of the round-house. 

" But on Mr. Meriton's return to the company, he perceived a 
considerable alteration in the appearance of the ship; the sides 
were visibly giving way ; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he 
discovered other strong indications that she could not hold much 
longer together. On this account, he attempted to go forward to 
look out, but immediately saw that the ship had separated in the 
middle, and that the fore part having changed its position, lay 
rather further out towards the sea. In such an emergency, when 
the next moment might plunge him into eternity, he determined to 
seize the present opportunity, and follow the example of the crew 
and the soldiers, who were now quitting the ship in numbers, and 
making their v/ay to the shore, though quite ignorant of its nature 
and description. 

"Among other expedients, the ensign-staff" had been unshipped, 
and attempted to be laid between the ship's side and some of the 
rocks, but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached 
them. However, by the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman 
handed through the skylight of the round-house to the deck, Mr. 
Meriton discovered a spar which appeared to be laid from the ship's 
side to the rocks, and on this spar he resolved to attempt his 
escape. 

" Accordingly, lying down upon it, he thrust himself forward ; 
however, he soon found that it had no communication with the 
rock ; he reached the end of it, and then slipped off*, receiving a 
very violent bruise in his fall, and before he could recover his legs, 



214 REPRINTED PIECES. 

he was washed off by the surge. He now supported himself by 
swimming, until a returning wave dashed him against the back 
part of the cavern. Here he laid hold of a small projection in the 
rock, but was so much benumbed that he was on the point of 
quitting it, when a seaman, who had already gained a footing, 
extended his hand, and assisted him until he could secure himself a 
little on the rock ; from which he clambered on a shelf still higher, ' 
and out of the reach of the surf. 

" Mr. Rogers, the third mate, remained with the captain and the 
unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly twenty minutes 
after Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter 
left the round-house, the captain asked what was become of him, 
to which Mr. Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what 
could be done. After this, a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the 
ladies exclaimed, ' Oh poor Meriton ! he is drowned ; had he stayed 
with us he would have been safe ! ' and they all, particularly Miss 
Mary Pierce, expressed great concern at the apprehension of his 
loss. 

" The sea was now breaking in at the fore part of the ship, and 
reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave Mr. Rogers 
a nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the stern- 
gallery, where, after viewing the rocks for some time. Captain 
Pierce asked Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of 
saving the girls ; to which he replied, he feared there was none ; 
for they could only discover the black face of the perpendicular 
rock, and not the cavern which afforded shelter to those who 
escaped. They then returned to the round-house, where Mr. 
Rogers hung up the lamp, and Captain Pierce sat down between 
his two daughters. 

" The sea continuing to break in very fast, Mr. Macmanus, a 
midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr. Rogers what 
they could do to escape. ' Follow me, ' he replied, and they all 
went into the stern-gallery, and from thence to the upper-quarter- 
gallery on the poop. While there, a very heavy sea fell on board, 
and the round-house gave way ; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek 
at intervals, as if the water reached them ; the noise of the sea at 
other times drowning their voices. 

" Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained 
together about five minutes, when on the breaking of this heavy 
sea, they jointly seized a hen-coop. The same wave which proved 
fatal to some of those below, carried him and his companion to the 
rock, on which they were violently dashed and miserably bruised. 

" Here on the rock were twenty-seven men ; but it now being 
low water, and as they were convinced that on the flowing of the 



THE LONG VOYAGE. 215 

tide all must be washed off, many attempted to get to the back or 
the sides of the cavern, beyond the reach of the returning sea. 
Scarcely more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, suc- 
ceeded. 

" Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station, was so nearly exhausted, 
that had his exertions been protracted only a few minutes longer, he 
must have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining 
Mr. Meriton, by at least twenty men between them, none of whom 
could move, without the imminent peril of his life. 

" They found that a very considerable number of the crew, sea- 
men and soldiers, and some petty officers, were in the same situation 
as themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, per- 
ished in attempting to ascend. They could yet discern some part 
of the ship, and in their dreary station solaced themselves with the 
hopes of its remaining entire until day -break ; for, in the midst of 
their own distress, the sufferings of the females on board affected 
them with most poignant anguish ; and every sea that broke inspired 
them with terror for their safety. 

" But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised ! Within 
a very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers gained the rock, 
an universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, in which the 
voice of female distress was lamentably distinguished, announced 
the dreadful catastrophe. In a few moments all was hushed, 
except the roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves ; the 
wreck was buried in the deep, and not an atom of it was ever after- 
wards seen." 

The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with 
a shipwreck, succeeds this dismal story for a winter night. The 
Grosvenor, East Indiaman, homeward bound, goes ashore on the 
coast of Caffraria. It is resolved that the officers, passengers, and 
crew, in number one hundred and thirty-five souls, shall endeavour 
to penetrate on foot, across trackless deserts, infested by wild beasts 
and cruel savages, to the Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good 
Hope. With this forlorn object before them, they finally separate 
into two parties — never more to meet on earth. 

There is a solitary child among the passengers — a little boy of 
seven years old who has no relation there ; and when the first party 
is moving away he cries after some member of it who has been kind 
to him. The crying of a child might be supposed to be a little 
thing to men in such great extremity ; but it touches them, and he 
is immediately taken into that detachment. 

From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred 
charge. He is pushed, on a little raft, across broad rivers by the 



216 EEPRINTED PIECES. 

swimming sailors ; they carry him by turns through the deep sand and 
long grass (he patiently walking at all other times) ; they share 
with him such putrid fish as they find to eat ; they lie down and 
wait for him when the rough carpenter, who becomes his especial 
friend, lags behind. Beset by lions and tigers, by savages, by thirst, 
by hunger, by death in a crowd of ghastly shapes, they never — 
Father of all mankind, thy name be blessed for it ! — forget this 
child. The captain stops exhausted, and his faithful coxswain goes 
back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither of the two 
shall be any more beheld until the great last day ; but, as the rest 
go on for their lives, they take the child with them. The carpenter 
dies of poisonous berries eaten in starvation ; and the steward, suc- 
ceeding to the command of the party, succeeds to the sacred guar- 
dianship of the child. 

God knows all he does for the poor baby; how he cheerfully 
carries him in his arms when he himself is weak and ill ; how he 
feeds him when he himself is griped with want ; how he folds his 
ragged jacket round him, lays his little worn face with a woman's 
tenderness upon his sunburnt breast, soothes him in his suff'erings, 
sings to him as he limps along, unmindful of his own parched and 
bleeding feet. Divided for a few days from the rest, they dig a 
grave in the sand and bury their good friend the cooper — these 
two companions alone in the wilderness — and then the time comes 
when they both are ill, and beg their wretched partners in despair, 
reduced and few in number now, to wait by them one day. They 
wait by them one day, they wait by them two days. On the morn- 
ing of the third, they move very softly about, in making their 
preparations for the resumption of their journey ; for, the child is 
sleeping by the fire, and it is agreed with one consent that he shall 
not be disturbed until the last moment. The moment comes, the 
fire is dying — and the child is dead. 

His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind 
him. His grief is great, he staggers on for a few days, lies down 
in the desert, and dies. But he shall be reunited in his immortal 
spirit — who can doubt it ! — with the child, where he and the 
poor carpenter shall be raised up with the words, " Inasmuch as ye 
have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." 

As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the par- 
ticipators in this once famous shipwreck (a mere handful being re- 
covered at last), and the legends that were long afterwards revived 
from time to time among the English officers at the Cape, of a 
white woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping out- 
side a savage hut far in the interior, who was whisperingly associated 
with the remembrance of the missing ladies saved from the wrecked 



THE LATE MR. JUSTICE TALFOURD. 217 

vessel, and wlio was often sought but never found, thoughts of an- 
other kind of travel came into my mind. 

Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from home, who 
travelled a vast distance, and could never return. Thoughts of 
this unhappy wayfarer in the depths of his sorrow, in the bitterness 
of his anguish, in the helplessness of his self-reproach, in the des- 
peration of his desire to set right what he had left wrong, and do 
what he had left undone. 

For, there were many many things he had neglected. Little 
matters while he was at home and surrounded by them, but things 
of mighty moment when he was at an immeasurable distance. 
There were many many blessings that he had inadequately felt, 
there were many trivial injuries that he had not forgiven, there was 
love that he had but poorly returned, there was friendship that he 
had too lightly prized : there were a million kind words that he 
might have spoken, a million of kind looks that he might have 
given, uncountable slight easy deeds in which he might have been 
most truly great and good. for a day (he would exclaim), for 
but one day to make amends ! But the sun never shone upon that 
happy day, and out of his remote captivity he never came. 

Why does this traveller's fate obscure, on New Year's Eve, the 
other histories of travellers with which my mind was filled but 
now, and cast a solemn shadow over me ! Must I one day make 
his journey? Even so. Who shall say, that I may not then be 
tortured by such late regrets : that I may not then look from my 
exile on my empty place and undone w^ork ? I stand upon a sea- 
shore, where the waves are years. They break and fall, and I may 
little heed them ; but, with every wafe the sea is rising, and I know 
that it will float me on this traveller's voyage at last. 



Household Words, Vol. 9, No. 209, March 25, 1854. 
THE LATE MR. JUSTICE TALFOURD. 

The readers of these pages will have known, many days before 
the present number can come into their hands, that on Monday 
the thirteenth of March, this upright judge and good man died 
suddenly at Stafford in the discharge of his duties. Mercifully 
spared protracted pain and mental decay, he passed away in a mo- 
ment, with words of Christian eloquence, of brotherly tenderness 
and kindness towards all men, yet unfinished on his lips. 

As he died he had always lived. So amiable a man, so gentle, 



218 REPRINTED PIECES. 

so sweet-tempered, of such a noble simplicity, so perfectly unspoiled 
by his labours and their rewards, is very rare indeed upon this earth. 
These lines are traced by the faltering hand of a friend , but none 
can so fully know how true they are, as those who knew him under 
all circumstances, and found him ever the same. 

In his public aspects; in his poems, in his speeches, on the 
bench, at the bar, in Parliament ; he was widely appreciated, hon- 
oured, and beloved. Inseparable as his great and varied abilities 
were from himself in life, it is yet to himself and not to them, that 
affection in its first grief naturally turns. They remain, but he is 
lost. 

The chief delight of his life was to give delight to others. His 
nature was so exquisitely kind, that to be kind was its highest 
happiness. Those who had the privilege of seeing him in his own 
home when his public successes were greatest, — so modest, so con- 
tented with little things, so interested in humble persons and hum- 
ble efforts, so surrounded by children and young people, so adored 
in remembrance of a domestic generosity and greatness of heart too 
sacred to be unveiled here, can never forget the pleasure of that 
sight. 

If ever there were a house, in England justly celebrated for the 
reverse of the picture, where every art was honoured for its own 
sake, and where every visitor was received for his own claims and 
merits, that house was his. It was in this respect a great example, 
as sorely needed as it will be sorely missed. Rendering all legiti- 
mate deference to rank and riches, there never was a man more 
composedly, unaffectedly, quietly, immovable by such considerations 
than the subject of this sorrowing remembrance. On the other 
hand, nothing would have astonished him so much as the sugges- 
tion that he was anybody's patron or protector. His dignity was 
ever of that highest and purest sort which has no occasion to pro- 
claim itself, and which is not in the least afraid of losing itself. 

In the first joy of his appointment to the judicial bench, he 
made a summer-visit to the sea-shore, " to share his exultation in 
the gratification of his long-cherished ambition, with the friend," — 
now among the many friends who mourn his death and lovingly 
recall his virtues. Lingering in the bright moonlight at the close 
of a happy day, he spoke of his new functions, of his sense of the 
great responsibility Jie undertook, and of his placid belief that the 
habits of his professional life rendered him equal to their eflacient 
discharge; but, above all, he spoke, with an earnestness never 
more to be separated in his friend's mind from the murmur of the 
sea upon a moonlight night, of his reliance on the strength of his 
desire to do right before God and man. He spoke with his own 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 219 

singleness of heart, and his solitary hearer knew how deep and 
true his purpose was. They passed, before parting for the night, 
into a playful dispute at what age he should retire, and what he 
would do at three-score years and ten. And ah ! within five short 
years, it is all ended like a dream. 

But, by the strength of his desire to do right, he was animated 
to the last moment of his existence. Who, knowing England at 
this time, would wish to utter with his last breath a more right- 
eous warning than that its curse is ignorance, or a miscalled educa- 
tion which is as bad or worse, and a want of the exchange of 
innumerable graces and sympathies among the various orders of 
society, each hardened unto each and holding itself aloof? Well 
will it be for us and for our children if those dying words be never 
henceforth forgotten on the Judgment Seat. 

An example in his social intercourse to those who are born to 
station, an example equally to those who win it for themselves ; 
teaching the one class to abate its stupid pride; the other, to 
stand upon its eminence, not forgetting the road by which it got 
there, and fawning upon no one ; the conscientious judge, the 
charming writer and accomplished speaker, the gentle-hearted, 
guileless, aftectionate man, has entered on a brighter world. Very, 
very many have lost a friend ; nothing in Creation has lost an 
enemy. 

The hand that lays this poor flower on his grave, was a mere 
boy's when he first clasped it — newly come from the w^ork in 
which he himself began life — little used to the plough it has fol- 
lowed since — obscure enough, with much to correct and learn. 
Each of its successive tasks through many intervening years has 
been cheered by his warmest interest, and the friendship then be- 
gun has ripened to maturity in the passage of time ; but there was 
no more self-assertion or condescension in his winning goodness at 
first, than at last. The success of other men made as little change 
in him as his own. 



Household Words, Vol. 10, No. 241, Nov. 4, 1854. 

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 

Having earned, by many years of fidelity, the right to be some- 
times inconstant to our English watering-place, we have dallied for 
two or three seasons with a French watering-place : once solely 
known to us as a town with a very long street, beginning with an 
abattoir and endinor with a steam-boat, which it seemed our fate to 



220 REPRINTED PIECES. 

behold only at daybreak on winter mornings, when (in the days 
before continental railroads), just sufficiently awake to know that 
we were most uncomfortably asleep, it was our destiny always to 
clatter through it, in the coupe of the diligence from Paris, with a 
sea of mud behind us, and a sea of tumbling waves before. In 
relation to which latter monster, our mind's eye now recalls a worthy 
Frenchman in a seal-skin cap with a braided hood over it, once our 
travelling companion in the coupd aforesaid, who, waking up with 
a pale and crumpled visage, and looking ruefully out at the grim 
row of breakers enjoying themselves fanatically on an instrument 
of torture called "the Bar," inquired of us whether we were ever 
sick at sea? Both to prepare his mind for the abject creature we 
were presently to become, and also to afford him consolation, we 
replied, " Sir, your servant is always sick when it is possible to be 
so." He returned, altogether uncheered by the bright example, 
" Ah, Heaven, but I am alv/ays sick, even when it is wTipossible 
to be so." 

The means of communication between the French capital and 
our French watering-place are wholly changed since those days; 
but, the Channel remains unbridged as yet, and the old flounder- 
ing and knocking about go on there. It must be confessed that 
saving in reasonable (and therefore rare) sea-weather, the act of 
arrival at our French watering-place from England is difficult to 
be achieved with dignity. Several little circumstances combine' 
to render the visitor an object of humiliation. In the first place, 
the steamer no sooner touches the port, than all the passengers 
fall into captivity : being boarded by an overpowering force of 
Custom-house officers, and marched into a gloomy dungeon. In 
the second place, the road to this dungeon is fenced off with ropes 
breast-high, and outside those ropes all the English in the place 
who have lately been sea-sick and are now well, assemble in their 
best clothes to enjoy the degradation of their dilapidated fellow- 
creatures. " Oh, my gracious ! how ill this one has been ! " 
"Here's a damp one coming next!" '■^Here's a pale one!" 
" Oh ! Ain't he green in the face, this next one ! " Even we 
ourself (not deficient in natural dignity) have a lively remem- 
brance of staggering up this detested lane one September day 
in a gale of wind, when we were received like an irresistible 
comic actor, with a burst of laughter and applause, occasioned 
by the extreme imbecility of our legs. 

We were coming to the third place. In the third place, the 
captives, being shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are strained, two 
or three at a time, into an inner cell, to be examined as to pass- 
ports; and across the doorway of communication, stands a mill- 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 221 

tary creature making a bar of his arm. Two ideas are generally- 
present to the British mind during these ceremonies ; first, that 
it is necessary to make for the cell with violent struggles, as if it 
were a life-boat and the dungeon a ship going down ; secondly, that 
the military creature's arm is a national affront, which the govern- 
ment at home ought instantly to " take up." The British mind 
and body becoming heated by these fantasies, delirious answers are 
made to inquiries, and extravagant actions performed. Thus, 
Johnson persists in giving Johnson as his baptismal name, and 
substituting for his ancestral designation the national " Dam ! " 
Neither can he by any means be brought to recognise the dis- 
tinction between a portmanteau-key and a passport, but will 
obstinately persevere in tendering the one when asked for the 
other. This brings him to the fourth place, in a state of mere 
idiotcy; and when he is, in the fourth place, cast out at a little 
door into a howling wilderness of touters, he becomes a lunatic 
with wild eyes and floating hair until rescued and soothed. If 
friendless and unrescued, he is generally put into a railway omni- 
bus and taken to Paris. 

But, our French watering-place, when it is once got into, is a 
very enjoyable place. It has a varied and beautiful country 
around it, and many characteristic and agreeable things within 
it. To be sure, it might have fewer bad smells and less de- 
caying refuse, and it might be better drained, and much cleaner 
in many parts, and therefore infinitely more healthy. Still, it 
is a bright, airy, pleasant, cheerful town ; and if you were to 
walk down either of its three well-paved main streets, towards 
five o'clock in the afternoon, when delicate odours of cookery fill 
the air, and its hotel windows (it is full of hotels) give glimpses 
of long tables set out for dinner, and made to look sumptuous by 
the aid of napkins folded fan-wise, you would rightly judge it to 
be an uncommonly good town to eat and drink in. 

We have an old walled town, rich in cool public wells of water, 
on the top of a hill within and above the present business-town ; 
and if it were some hundreds of miles further from England, instead 
of being, on a clear day, within sight of the grass growing in the 
crevices of the chalk-cliffs of Dover, you would long ago have 
been bored to death about that town. It is more picturesque 
and quaint than half the innocent places which tourists, follow- 
ing their leader like sheep, have made impostors of. To say 
nothing of its houses with grave courtyards, its queer by-corners, 
and its many-windowed streets white and quiet in the sunlight, 
there is an ancient belfry in it that would have been in all the 
Annuals and Albums, going and gone, these hundred years, if it had 



222 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

but been more expensive to get at. Happily it has escaped so well, 
being only in our French watering-place, that you may like it of 
your own accord in a natural manner, without being required to 
go into convulsions about it. We regard it as one of the later 
blessings of our life, that Bilkins, the only authority on Taste, 
never took any notice that we can find out, of our French water- 
ing-place. Bilkins never wrote about it, never pointed out any- 
thing to be seen in it, never measured anything in it, always left 
it alone. For which relief, Heaven bless the town and the memory 
of the immortal Bilkins likewise ! 

There is a charming walk, arched and shaded by trees, on the 
old walls that form the four sides of this High Town, whence you 
get glimpses of the streets below, and changing views of the other 
town and of the river, and of the hills and of the sea. It is made 
more agreeable and peculiar by some of the solemn houses that are 
rooted in the deep streets below, bursting into a fresher existence 
a-top, and having doors and windows, and even gardens, on these 
ramparts. A child going in at the courtyard gate of one of these 
houses, climbing up the many stairs, and coming out at the fourth- 
floor window, might conceive himself another Jack, alighting on 
enchanted ground from another bean-stalk. It is a place wonder- 
fully populous in children ; English children, with governesses 
reading novels as they walk down the shady lanes of trees, or 
nursemaids interchanging gossip on the seats ; French children 
with their smiling bonnes in snow-white caps, and themselves — if 
little boys — in straw head-gear like bee-hives, work-baskets and 
church hassocks. Three years ago, there were three weazen old ■ 
men, one bearing a frayed red ribbon in his threadbare button-hole, 
always to be found walking together among these children, before 
dinner-time. If they walked for an appetite, they doubtless lived 
en pension — were contracted for — otherwise their poverty would 
have made it a rash action. They were stooping, blear-eyed, dull old 
men, slip-shod and shabby, in long-skirted short-waisted coats and 
meagre trousers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in their 
company. They spoke little to each other, and looked as if they 
might have been politically discontented if they had had vitality 
enough. Once, we overheard red-ribbon feebly complain to the 
other two that somebody, or something, was " a Robber ; " and 
then they all three set their mouths so that they would have ground 
their teeth if they had had any. The ensuing winter gathered red- 
ribbon unto the great company of faded ribbons, and next year the 
remaining two were there — getting themselves entangled with 
hoops and dolls — familiar mysteries to the children — probably in 
the eyes of most of them, harmless creatures who had never been 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 223 

like children, and whom children could never be like. Another 
winter came, and another old man went, and so, this present year, 
the last of the triumvirate, left off walking — it was no good, now 
— and sat by himself on a little solitary bench, w^ith the hoops 
and the dolls as lively as ever all about him. 

In the Place d'Armes of this town, a little decayed market is 
held, which seems to slip through the old gateway, like water, and 
go rippling down the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market 
in the lower town, and get lost in its movement and bustle. It is 
very agreeable on an idle summer morning to pursue this market- 
stream from the hill-top. It begins, dozingly and dully, with a few 
sacks of corn ; starts into a surprising collection of boots and shoes ; 
goes brawling down the hill in a diversified channel of old cordage, 
old iron, old crockery, old clothes, civil and military, old rags, new cot- 
ton goods, flaming prints of saints, little looking-glasses, and incalcu- 
lable lengths of tape ; dives into a backway, keeping out of sight for a 
little while, as streams will, or only sparkling for a moment in the 
shape of a market drinking-shop ; and suddenly reappears behind 
the great church, shooting itself into a bright confusion of white- 
capped women and blue-bloused men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, 
flowers, pots, pans, praying-chairs, soldiers, country butter, umbrellas 
and other sun-shades, girl-porters waiting to be hired with baskets 
at their backs, and one weazen little old man in a cocked hat, 
wearing a cuirass of drinking-glasses and carrying on his shoulder a 
crimson temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified pavior's rammer 
without the handle, who rings a little bell in all parts of the scene, 
and cries his cooling drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o ! in a shrill cracked 
voice that somehow makes itself heard, above all the chaffering and 
vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole course of the 
stream is dry. The praying-chairs are put back in the church, 
the umbrellas are folded up, the unsold goods are carried away, 
the stalls and stands disappear, tlie square is swept, the hackney 
coaches lounge there to be hired, and on all the country roads (if 
you walk about, as much as we do) you will see the peasant women, 
always neatly and comfortably dressed, riding home, with the pleas- 
antest saddle-furniture of clean milk-pails, bright butter-kegs, and 
the like, on the j oiliest little donkeys in the world. 

We have another market in our French watering-place — that 
is to say, a few wooden hutches in the open street, down by the 
Port — devoted to fish. Our fishing-boats are famous everywhere ; 
and our fishing people, though they love lively colours and taste is 
neutral (see Bilkins), are among the most picturesque people we 
ever encountered. They have not only a quarter of their own in 
the town itself, but they occupy whole villages of their own on the 



224 REPRINTED TIECES. 

neighbouring cliffs. Their churches and chapels are their own ; 
they consort with one another, they intermarry among themselves, 
their customs are their own, and their costume is their own and 
never changes. As soon as one of their boys can walk, he is pro- 
vided with a long bright red nightcap ; and one of their men would 
as soon think of going afloat without his head, as without that in- 
dispensable appendage to it. Then, they wear the noblest boots, 
with the hugest tops — flapping and bulging over anyhow ; above 
which, they encase themselves in such wonderful overalls and 
petticoat trousers, made to all appearance of tarry old sails, so 
additionally stiff'ened with pitch and salt, that the wearers have a 
walk of their own, and go straddling and swinging about among 
the boats and barrels and nets and rigging, a sight to see. Then, 
their younger women, by dint of going down to the sea barefoot, to 
fling their baskets into the boats as they come in with the tide, and 
bespeak the first fruits of the haul with propitiatory promises to 
love and marry that dear fisherman who shall fill that basket like 
an Angel, have the finest legs ever carved by Nature in the bright- 
est mahogany, and they walk like Juno. Their eyes, too, are so 
lustrous that their long gold ear-rings turn dull beside those brill- 
iant neighbours ; and when they are dressed, what with these 
beauties, and their fine fresh faces,, and their many petticoats — 
striped petticoats, red petticoats, blue petticoats, always clean and 
smart, and never too long — and their home-made stockings, mulberry- 
coloured, blue, brown, purple, lilac — which the older women, tak- 
ing care of the Dutch-looking children, sit in all sorts of places 
knitting, knitting, knitting from morning to night — and what 
with their little saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too, and fitting 
close to their handsome figures ; and what with the natural grace 
with which they wear the commonest cap, or fold the commonest 
handkerchief round their luxuriant hair — we say, in a word and 
out of breath, that taking all these premises into our consideration, 
it has never been a matter of the least surprise to us that we have 
never once met, in the cornfields, on the dusty roads, by the breezy 
windmills, on the plots of short sweet grass overhanging the sea — 
anywhere — a young fisherman and fislierwoman of our French 
watering-place together, but the arm of that fisherman has invari- 
ably been, as a matter of course and without any absurd attempt to 
disguise so plain a necessity, round the neck or waist of tliat fisher- 
woman. And we have had no doubt whatever, standing looking 
at their uphill streets, house rising above house, and terrace above 
terrace, and bright garments here and there lying sunning on 
rough stone parapets, that the pleasant mist on all such objects, 
caused by their being seen through the brown nets hung across on 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 225 

poles to dry, is, in the eyes of every true young fisherman, a mist 
of love and beauty, setting off the goddess of his heart. 

Moreover it is to be observed that these are an industrious peo- 
ple, and a domestic people, and an honest people. And though 
we are aware that at the bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall 
down and worship the Neapolitans, we make bold very much to 
prefer the fishing people of our French watering-place — especially 
since our last visit to Naples within these twelvemonths, when we 
found only four conditions of men remaining in the whole city : to 
wit, lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers, and all of them beggars ; 
the paternal government having, banished all its subjects except 
the rascals. 

But we can never henceforth separate our French watering-place 
from our own landlord of two summers, M. Loyal Devasseur, 
citizen and town-councillor. Permit us to have the pleasure of 
presenting M. Loyal Devasseur. 

His own family name is simply Loyal ; but, as he is married, 
and as in that part of France a husband always adds to his own 
name the family name of his wife, he writes himself Loyal Devas- 
seur. He owns a compact little estate of some twenty or thirty 
acres on a lofty hill-side, and on it he has built two country houses, 
which he lets furnished. They are by many degrees the best 
houses that are so let near our French watering-place ; we have 
had the honour of living in both, and can testify. The entrance- 
hall of the first we inhabited was ornamented with a plan of the 
estate, representing it as about twice the size of Ireland ; insomuch 
that when we were yet new to the property (M. Loyal always 
speaks of it as " La propridtd ") we went three miles straight on 
end in search of the bridge of Austerlitz — which we afterwards 
found to be immediately outside the window. The Chateau of the 
Old Guard, in another part of the grounds, and, according to the 
plan, about two leagues from the little dining-room, we sought in 
vain for a week, until, happening one evening to sit upon a bench 
in the forest (forest in the plan), a few yards from the house-door, 
we observed at our feet, in the ignominious circumstances of being 
upside down and greenly rotten, the Old Guard himself : that is to 
say, the painted effigy of a member of that distinguished corps, 
seven feet high, and in the act of carrying arms, who had had the 
misfortune to be blown down in the previous winter. It will be 
perceived that M. Loyal is a staunch admirer of the great Napoleon. 
He is an old soldier himself — captain of the National Guard, with 
a handsome gold vase on his chimney-piece, presented to him by 
his company — and his respect for the memory of the illustrious gen- 
eral is enthusiastic. Medallions of him, portraits of him, busts of 



226 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

him, pictures of him, are thickly sprinkled all over the property. 
During the first month of our occupation, it was our affliction to be 
constantly knocking down Napoleon : if we touched a shelf in a 
dark corner, he toppled over with a crash; and every door we 
opened, shook him to the soul. Yet M. Loyal is not a man of mere 
castles in the air, or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a spe- 
cially practical, contriving, clever, skilful eye and hand. His houses 
are delightful. He unites French elegance and English comfort, in 
a happy manner quite his own. He has an extraordinary genius 
for making tasteful little bedrooms in angles of his roofs, which an 
Englishman would as soon think of turning to any account as he 
would think of cultivating the Desert. We have ourself reposed 
deliciously in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal's construction, with 
our head as nearly in the kitchen chimney-pot as we can conceive it 
likely for the head of any gentleman, not by profession a Sweep, to 
be. And, into whatsoever strange nook M. Loyal's genius pene- 
trates, it, in that nook, infallibly constructs a cupboard and a row 
of pegs. In either of our houses, we could have put away the knap- 
sacks and hung up the hats of the whole regiment of Guides. 

Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in the town. You can 
transact business with no present tradesman in the town, and give 
your card " chez M. Loyal," but a brighter face shines upon you 
directly. We doubt if there is, ever was, or ever will be, a man 
so universally pleasant in the minds of people as M. Loyal is in 
the minds of the citizens of our French watering-place. They rub 
their hands and laugh when they speak of him. Ah, but he is 
such a good child, such a brave l3oy, such a generous spirit, that 
Monsieur Loyal ! It is the honest truth. M. Loyal's nature is the 
nature of a gentleman. He cultivates his ground with his own 
hands (assisted by one little labourer, who falls into a fit now and 
then) ; and he digs and delves from morn to eve in prodigious 
perspirations — "works always," as he says — but, cover him with 
dust, mud, weeds, water, any stains you will, you never can cover 
the gentleman in M. Loyal. A portly, upright, broad-shouldered, 
brorwn-faced man, whose soldierly bearing gives him the appearance 
of being taller than he is, look into the bright eye of M. Loyal, 
standing before you in his working blouse and cap, not particularly 
well shaved, and, it may be, very earthy, and you shall discern in 
M. Loyal a gentleman whose true politeness is in grain, and con- 
firmation of whose word by his bond you would blush to think of. 
Not without reason is M. Loyal when he tells that story, in his 
own vivacious way, of his travelling to Fulham, near London, to 
buy all these hundreds and hundreds of trees you now see upon 
the Property, then a bare, bleak hill; and of his sojourning in 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 227 

Fulham three months ; and of his jovial evenings with the market- 
gardeners ; and of the crowning banquet before his departure, when 
the market-gardeners rose as one man, clinked their glasses all 
together (as the custom at Fulham is), and cried, " Vive Loyal ! " 

M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no family ; and he loves to 
drill the children of his tenants, or run races Avith them, or do any- 
thing with them, or for them, that is good-natured. He is of a 
highly convivial temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded. 
Billet a soldier on him, and he is deliglited. Five-and-thirty sol- 
diers had M. Loyal billeted on him this present summer, and they 
all got fat and red-faced in two days. It became a legend among 
the troops that whosoever got billeted on M. Loyal rolled in 
clover ; and so it fell out that the fortunate man who drew the 
billet " M. Loyal Devasseur " always leaped into the air, though 
in heavy marching order. M. Loyal cannot bear to admit anything 
that might seem by any implication to disparage the military pro- 
fession. We hinted to him once, that we were conscious of a 
remote doubt arising in our mind, whether a sou a day for pocket- 
money, tobacco, stockings, drink, washing, and social pleasures in 
general, left a very large margin for a soldier's enjoyment. Par- 
don ! said Monsieur Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a fortune, 
but — k la bonne heure — it was better than it used to be ! 
Wliat, we asked him on another occasion, were all those neighbour- 
ing peasants, each living with his family in one room, and each 
having a soldier (perhaps two) billeted on him every other night, 
required to provide for those soldiers ? " Faith ! " said M. Loyal, 
reluctantly; "a bed, monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle. 
And they share their supper with those soldiers. It is not possible 
that they could eat alone." — "And what allowance do they get 
for this 1 " said we. Monsieur Loyal drew himself up taller, took 
a step back, laid his hand upon his breast, and said, with majesty, 
as speaking for himself and all France, "Monsieur, it is a contribu- 
tion to the State ! " 

It is never going to rain, according to M. Loyal. When it is 
impossible to deny that it is now raining in torrents, he says it 
will be fine — charming — magnificent — to-morrow. It is never 
hot on the Property, he contends. Likewise it is never cold. The 
flowers, he says, come out, delighted to grow there ; it is like Para- 
dise this morning : it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a little 
fanciful in his language : smilingly observing of Madame Loyal, 
when she is absent at vespers, that she is " gone to her salvation " 
— allde a son salut. He has a great enjoyment of tobacco, but 
nothing would induce him to continue smoking face to face with a 
lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his breast pocket, 



228 REPRINTED PIECES. . 

scorches his blouse, and nearly sets him on fire. In the Town 
Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a full suit of 
black, with a waistcoat of magnificent breadth across the chest, and 
a shirt-collar of fabulous proportions. Good M. Loyal ! Under 
blouse or waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest hearts that beat 
in a nation teeming with gentle people. He has had losses, and 
has been at his best under them. Not only the loss of his way by 
night in the Fulham times — when a bad subject of an Englishman, 
under pretence of seeing him home, took him into all the night 
public-houses, drank "arfanarf" in every one at his expense, and 
finally fled, leaving him shipwrecked at Cleefeeway, which we ap- 
prehend to be Ratcliffe Highway — but heavier losses than that. 
Long ago a family of children and a mother were left in one of his 
houses without money, a whole year. M. Loyal — ■ anything but as 
rich as we wish he had been — had not the heart to say " you must 
go;" so they stayed on and stayed on, and paying-tenants who 
would have come in couldn't come in, and at last they managed to 
get helped home across the water ; and M. Loyal kissed the whole 
group, and said, " Adieu, my poor infants ! " and sat down in their 
deserted salon and smoked his pipe of peace. — " The rent, M. 
Loyal 1 " " Eh ! well ! The rent ! " M. Loyal shakes his head. 
"Le bon Dieu," says M. Loyal presently, "will recompense me," 
and he laughs and smokes his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on 
the Property, and not be recompensed, these fifty years ! 

There are public amusements in our French watering-place, or it 
would not be French. They are very popular, and very cheap. 
The sea-bathing — which may rank as the most favoured daylight 
entertainment, inasmuch as the French visitors bathe all day long, 
and seldom appear to think of remaining less than an hour at a 
time in the water — is astoundingly cheap. Omnibuses convey 
you, if you please, from a convenient part of the town to the beach 
and back again ; you have a clean and comfortable bathing-machine, 
dress, linen, and all appliances ; and the charge for the whole is 
half-a-franc, or fivepence. On the pier, there is usually a guitar, 
which seems presumptuously enough to set its tinkling against the 
deep hoarseness of the sea, and there is always some boy or woman 
who sings, without any voice, little songs without any tune : the 
strain we have most frequently heard being an appeal to "the 
sportsman" not to bag that choicest of game, the swallow. For 
bathing purposes, we have also a subscription establishment with 
an esplanade, where people lounge about with telescopes, and seem 
to get a good deal of weariness for their money ; and we have also 
an association of individual machine proprietors combined against 
this formidable rival. M. Fdroce, our own particular friend in the 



OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 229 

bathing line, is one of these. How he ever came by his name we 
cannot imagine. He is as gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal 
Devasseur himself; immensely stout withal; and of a beaming 
aspect. M. Fdroce has saved so many people from drowning, and 
has been decorated with so many medals in consequence, that his 
stoutness seems a special dispensation of Providence to enable him 
to wear them ; if his girth were the girth of an ordinary man, he 
could never hang them on, all at once. It is only on very great 
occasions that M. Fdroce displays his sliining honours. At other 
times they lie by, Avith rolls of manuscript testifying to the causes 
of their presentation, in a huge glass case in the red-sofa'd salon of 
his private residence on the beach, where M. Feroce also keeps his 
family pictures, his portraits of himself as he appears both in bath- 
ing life and in private life, his little boats that rock by clockwork, 
and his other ornamental possessions. 

Then, we have a commodious and gay Theatre — or had, for it 
is burned down now — where the opera was always preceded by a 
vaudeville, in which (as usual) everybody, down to the little old 
man with the large hat and the little cane and tassel, who always 
played either my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly broke out of the 
dialogue into the mildest vocal snatches, to the great perplexity of 
unaccustomed strangers from Great Britain, who never could make 
out when they were singing and when they were talking — and 
indeed it was pretty much the same. But, the caterers in the way 
of entertainment to whom we are most beholden, are the Society of 
Welldoing, who are active all the summer, and give the proceeds of 
their good works to the poor. Some of the most agreeable fetes 
they contrive, are announced as "Dedicated to the children;" and 
the taste with which they turn a small public enclosure into an 
elegant garden beautifully illuminated; and the thorough-going 
heartiness and energy with which they personally direct the child- 
ish pleasures ; are supremely delightful. For fivepence a head, we 
have on these occasions donkey races with Enghsh " Jokeis," and 
other rustic sports ; lotteries for toys ; roundabouts, dancing on 
the grass to the music of an admirable band, fire-balloons and fire- 
works. Further, almost every week all through the summer — 
never mind, now, on what day of the week — there is a fete in 
some adjoining village (called in that part of the country a 
Ducasse), where the people — really the people — dance on the 
green turf in the open air, round a little orchestra, that seems 
itself to dance, there is such an airy motion of flags and streamers 
all about it. And we do not suppose that between the Torrid 
Zone aiid the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with 
such astonishingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in 



230 REPRINTED PIECES. 

wrong places, utterly unknown to Professor Owen, as those who 
here disport themselves. Sometimes, the fete appertains to a par- 
ticular trade ; you will see among the cheerful young women at the 
joint Ducasse of the milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge 
of the art of making common and cheap things uncommon and 
pretty, by good sense and good taste, that is a practical lesson to 
any rank of society in a whole island we could mention. The 
oddest feature of these agreeable scenes is the everlasting Round- 
about (we preserve an English word wherever we can, as we are 
writing the English language), on the wooden horses of which 
machine grown-up people of all ages are wound round and round 
with the utmost solemnity, while the proprietor's wife grinds an 
organ, capable of only one tune, in the centre. 

As to the boarding-houses of our French watering-place, they are 
Legion, and would require a distinct treatise. It is not without a 
sentiment of national pride that we believe them to contain more 
bores from the shores of Albion than all the clubs in London. As 
you walk timidly in their neighbourhood, the very neck-clothes and 
hats of your elderly compatriots cry to you from the stones of the 
streets, "We are Bores — avoid us ! " We have never overheard 
at street corners such lunatic scraps of political and social discus- 
sion as among these dear countrymen of ours. They believe every- 
thing that is impossible and nothing that is true. They carry 
rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improve- 
ments on one another, staggering to the human intellect. And 
they are for ever rushing into the English library, propounding 
such incomprehensible paradoxes to the fair mistress of that estab- 
lishment, that we beg to recommend her to her Majesty's gracious 
consideration as a fit object for a pension. 

The English form a considerable part of the population of our 
French watering-place, and are deservedly addressed and respected 
in many ways. Some of the surface-addresses to them are odd 
enough, as when a laundress puts a placard outside her house 
announcing her possession of that curious British instrument, a 
"Mingle;" or when a tavern-keeper provides accommodation for 
the celebrated EngUsh game of "Nokemdon." But, to us, it is 
not the least pleasant feature of our French watering-place that a 
long and constant fusion of the two great nations there, has taught 
each to like the other, and to learn from the other, and to rise 
superior to the absurd prejudices that have lingered among the 
weak and ignorant in both countries equally. 

Drumming and trumpeting of course go on for ever in our 
French watering-place. Flag-flying is at a premium, too ; but, we 
cheerfully avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and 



PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 231 

that we take such outward signs of innocent liveliness to our heart 
of hearts. The people, in the town and in the country, are a busy 
people who work hard ; they are sober, temperate, good-humoured, 
light-hearted, and generally remarkable for their engaging manners. 
Few just men, not immoderately bilious, could see them in their 
recreations without very much respecting the character that is so 
easily, so harmlessly, and so simply, pleased. 



Household Words, Vol. 11, No. 256, Feb. 17, 1855. 
PEINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 

Once upon a time, and of course it was in the Golden Age, and 
I hope you may know when that was, for I am sure I don't, though 
I have tried hard to find out, there lived in a rich and fertile country, 
a powerful Prince whose name was Bull. He had gone through 
a great deal of fighting, in his time, about all sorts of things, in- 
cluding nothing ; but, had gradually settled down to be a steady, 
peaceable, good-natured, corpulent, rather sleepy Prince. 

This Puissant Prince was married to a lovely Princess whose 
name was Fair Freedom. She had brought him a large fortune, 
and had borne him an immense number of children, and had set 
them to spinning, and farming, and engineering, and soldiering, and 
sailoring, and doctoring, and lawyering, and preaching, and all kinds 
of trades. The coffers of Prince Bull were full of treasure, his 
cellars were crammed with delicious wines from all parts of the 
world, the richest gold and silver plate that ever was seen adorned 
his sideboards, his sons were strong, his daughters were handsome, 
and in short you might have supposed that if there ever lived upon 
earth a fortunate and happy Prince, the name of that Prince, take 
him for all in all, was assuredly Prince Bull. 

But, appearances, as we all know, are not always to be trusted 
— far from it ; and if they had led you to this conclusion respect- 
ing Prince Bull, they would have led you wrong as they often have 
led me. 

For, this good Prince had two sharp thorns in his pillow, two 
hard knobs in his crown, two heavy loads on his mind, two un- 
bridled nightmares in his sleep, two rocks ahead in his course. 
He could not by any means get servants to suit him, and he had a 
tyrannical old godmother, whose name was Tape. 

She was a Fairy, this Tape, and was a bright red all over. She 
was disgustingly prim and formal, and could never bend herself a 



232 REPRINTED PIECES. 

hair's breadth this way or that way, out of her naturally crooked 
shape. But, she was very j^otent in her wicked art. She could 
stop the fastest thing in the world, change the strongest thing into 
the weakest, and the most useful into the most useless. To do 
this she had only to put her cold hand upon it, and repeat her own 
name. Tape. Then it withered away. 

At the court of Prince Bull —at least I don't mean literally at 
his court, because he was a very genteel Prince, and readily yielded 
to his godmother when she always reserved that for his hereditary 
Lords and Ladies — in the dominions of Prince Bull, among the 
great mass of the community who were called in the language of 
that polite country the Mobs and the Snobs, were a number of very 
ingenious men, who were always busy with some invention or other, 
for promoting the prosperity of the Prince's subjects, and augment- 
ing the Prince's power. But, whenever they submitted their models 
for the Prince's approval, his godmother stepped forward, laid her 
hand upon them, and said " Tape." Hence it came to pass, that 
when any particularly good discovery was made, the discoverer 
usually carried it off to some other Prince, in foreign parts, who 
had no old godmother who said Tape. This was not on the whole 
an advantageous state of things for Prince Bull, to the best of my 
understanding. 

The worst of it was, that Prince Bull had in course of years 
lapsed into such a state of subjection to this unlucky godmother, 
tliat he never made any serious effort to rid himself of her tyranny. 
I have said this was the worst of it, but there I was wrong, because 
there is a worse consequence still, behind. The Prince's numerous 
family became so downright sick and tired of Tape, that when they 
should have helped the Prince out of the difficulties into which 
that evil creature led him, they fell into a dangerous habit of 
moodily keeping away from him in an impassive and indifferent 
manner, as though they had quite forgotten that no harm could hap- 
pen to the Prince their father, without its inevitably affecting them- 
selves. 

Such was the aspect of affairs at the court of Prince Bull, when 
this great Prince found it necessary to go to war with Prince Bear. 
He had been for some time very doubtful of his servants, who, be- 
sides being indolent and addicted to enriching their families at his 
expense, domineered over him dreadfully ; threatening to discharge 
themselves if they were found the least fault with, pretending that 
they had done a wonderful amount of work when they had done 
nothing, making the most unmeaning speeches that ever were heard 
in the Prince's name, and uniformly showing themselves to be very 
inefficient indeed. Though, that some of them had excellent char- 



PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 233 

acters from previous situations is not to be denied. Well ; Prince 
Bull called his servants together, and said to them one and all, 
" Send out my army against Prince Bear. Clothe it, arm it, feed it, 
provide it with all necessaries and contingencies, and I will pay the 
piper ! Do your duty by my brave troops," said the Prince, "and 
do it well, and I will pour my treasure out like water, to defray 
the cost. Who ever heard me complain of money well laid out ! " 
Which indeed he had reason for saying, inasmuch as he was well 
known to be a truly generous and munificent Prince. 

When the servants heard those words, they sent out the army 
against Prince Bear, and they set the army tailors to work, and 
the army provision merchants, and the makers of guns both great 
and small, and the gunpowder makers, and the makers of ball, shell, 
and shot ; and they bought up all manner of stores and ships, with- 
out troubling their heads about the price, and appeared to be so 
busy that the good Prince rubbed his hands, and (using a favourite 
expression of his), said, " It's all right ! " But, while they were 
thus employed, the Prince's godmother, who was a great favourite 
with those servants, looked in upon them continually all day long, 
and whenever she popped in her head at the door said, " How do 
you do, my children ? What are you doing here ? " " Ofiicial busi- 
ness, godmother." " Oho ! " says this wicked Fairy. " — Tape ! " 
And then the business all went wrong, whatever it was, the ser- 
vants' heads became so addled and muddled that they thought they 
were doing wonders. 

Now, this was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old 
nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled, even if she had 
stopped here ; but, she didn't stop here, as you shall learn. For, 
a number of the Prince's subjects, being very fond of the Prince's 
army who were the bravest of men, assembled together and pro- 
vided all manner of eatables and drinkables, and books to read, 
and clothes to wear, and tobacco to smoke, and candles to burn, and 
nailed them up in great packmg-cases, and put them aboard a great 
many ships, to be carried out to that brave army in the cold and 
inclement country where they were fighting Prince Bear. Then, 
up comes this wicked Fairy as the ships were weighing anchor, and 
says, "How do you do, my children? What are you doing here?" 

— " We are going with all these comforts to the army, godmother." 

— " Oho ! " says she. " A pleasant voyage, my darlings. — Tape ! " 
And from that time forth, those enchanted ships went sailing, 
against wind and tide and rhyme and reason, round and round the 
world, and whenever they touclied at any port were ordered off 
immediately, and could never deliver their cargoes anywhere. 

This, again, was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old 



234 REPRINTED PIECES. 

nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled for it if she had 
done nothing worse ; but, she did something worse still, as you 
shall learn. For, she got astride of an official broomstick, and mut- 
tered as a spell these two sentences, " On Her Majesty's service," 
and " I have the honour to be, sir, your most obedient servant," 
and presently alighted in the cold and inclement country where the 
army of Prince Bull were encamped to fight the army of Prince 
Bear. On the sea-shore of that country, she found piled together, a 
number of houses for the army to live in, and a quantity of provis- 
ions for the army to live upon, and a quantity of clothes for the 
army to wear : while, sitting in the mud gazing at them, were a 
group of officers as red to look at as the wicked old woman herself. 
So, she said to one of them, "Who are you, my darling, and how 
do you do ?" — " I am the Quarter-master General's Department, 
godmother, and I am pretty well." Then she said to another, 
"Who are you, my darling, and how do you do?" — "I am the 
Commissariat Department, godmother, and / am pretty well." 
Then she said to another, "Who are you, my darling, and how 
do you do ? " — "I am the Head of the Medical Department, god- 
mother, and I am pretty well." Then, she said to some gentlemen 
scented with lavender, who kept themselves at a great distance from 
the rest, " And who are you, my pretty pets, and how do you do ? " 
And they answered, " We-aw-are-the-aw-Staff-aw-Department, god- 
mother, and we are very well indeed." — " I am delighted to see you 
all, my beauties," says this wicked old Fairy, " — Tape ! " Upon 
that, the houses, clothes, and provisions, all mouldered away; 
and the soldiers who were sound, fell sick ; and the soldiers who 
were sick, died miserably : and the noble army of Prince Bull per- 
ished. 

When the dismal news of his great loss was carried to the Prince, 
he suspected his godmother very much indeed ; but, he knew that 
his servants must have kept company with the malicious beldame, 
and must have given way to her, and therefore he resolved to turn 
those servants out of their places. So, he called to him a Roebuck 
who had the gift of speech, and he said, " Good Roebuck, tell them 
they must go." So, the good Roebuck delivered his message, so 
like a man that you might have supposed him to be nothing but a 
man, and they were turned out — but, not without warning, for 
that they had had a long time. 

And now comes the most extraordinary part of the history of 
this Prince. When he had turned out those servants, of course he 
wanted others. What was his astonishment to find that in all his 
dominions, which contained no less than twenty-seven millions of 
people, there were not above five-and-twenty servants altogether ! 



PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 235 

They were so lofty about it, too, that instead of discussing whether 
they should hire themselves as servants to Prince Bull, they turned 
things topsy-turvy, and considered whether as a favour they should 
hire Prince Bull to be their master ! While they were arguing this 
point among themselves quite at their leisure, the wicked old red 
Fairy was incessantly going up and down, knocking at the doors 
of twelve of the oldest of the five-and-twenty, who were the oldest 
inhabitants in all that country, and whose united ages amounted to 
one thousand, saying, "Will you hire Prince Bull for your master? 

— Will you hire Prince Bull for your master?" To which one 
answered, " I will if next door will ; " and another, " I won't if over 
the way does ; " and another, " I can't if he, she, or they, might, 
could, would, or should." And all this time Prince Bull's affairs 
were going to rack and ruin. 

At last. Prince Bull in the height of his perplexity assumed a 
thoughtful face, as if he were struck by an entirely new idea. The 
wicked old Fairy, seeing this, was at his elbow directly, and said, 
" How do you do, my Prince, and what are you thinking of ? " — "I 
am thinking, godmother," says he, "that among all the seven-and- 
twenty millions of my subjects who have never been in service, 
there are men of intellect and business who have made me very 
famous both among my friends and enemies." — "Aye, truly?" 
says the Fairy. — "Aye, truly," says the Prince. — "And what 
then?" says the Fairy. — " Why, then," says he, "since the regu- 
lar old class of servants do so ill, are so hard to get, and carry it 
with so high a hand, perhaps I might try to make good servants of 
some of these." The w^ords had no sooner passed his lips than she 
returned, chuckling, "You think so, do you? Indeed, my Prince? 

— Tape ! " Thereupon he directly forgot what he was thinking of, 
and cried out lamentably to the old servants, "0, do come and 
hire your poor old master ! Pray do ! On any terms ! " 

And this, for the present, finishes the story of Prince Bull. I 
wish I could wind it up by saying that he lived happy ever after- 
wards, but I cannot in my conscience do so ; for, with Tape at his 
elbow, and his estranged children fatally repelled by her from com- 
ing near him, I do not, to tell you the plain truth, believe in the 
possibility of such an end to it. 



236 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 11, Wos. 265, 289, cuid 313, April 21, 1855. 
*THE THOUSAND AND ONE HUMBUGS. 

Everybody is acquainted with that enchanting collection of 
stories, the Thousand and One Nights, better known in England 
as the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Most people know that 
these wonderful fancies are unquestionably of genuine Eastern ori- 
gin, and are to be found in Arabic manuscripts now existing in the 
Vatican, in Paris, in London, and in Oxford ; the last-named city- 
being particularly distinguished in this connection, as possessing, in 
the library of Christchurch, a manuscript of the never-to-be-forgot- 
ten voyages of Sinbad the Sailor. 

The civilised world is indebted to France for a vast amount of 
its possessions, and among the rest for the first opening to Europe 
of this gorgeous storehouse of Eastern riches. So well did M. Gal- 
land, the original translator, perform his task, that when Mr. 
WoRTLEY Montague brought home the manuscript now in the 
Bodleian Library, there was found (poetical quotations excepted), 
to be very little, and that of a very inferior kind, to add to what 
M. Galland had already made perfectly familiar to France and 
England. 

Thus much as to the Thousand and One Nights, we recall, by 
way of introduction to the discovery we are about to announce. 

There has lately fallen into our hands, a manuscript in the 
Arabic character (with which we are perfectly acquainted), con- 
taining a variety of stories extremely similar in structure and inci- 
dent to the Thousand and One Nights ; but presenting the strange 
feature that although they are evidently of ancient origin, they 
have a curious accidental bearing on the present time. Allowing 
for the difference of manners and customs, it would often seem — 
were it not for the manifest impossibility of such prophetic knowl- 
edge in any mere man or men — that they were written expressly 
with an eye to events of the current age. We have referred the 
manuscript (which may be seen at our office on the first day of 
April in every year, at precisely four o'clock in the morning), to 
the profoundest Oriental Scholars of England and France, who are 
no less sensible than we are ourselves of this remarkable coinci- 
dence, and are equally at a loss to account for it. They are agreed, 
we may observe, on the propriety of our rendering the title in the 
words. The Thousand and One Humbugs. For, although the East- 
ern story-tellers do not appear to have possessed any word, or 
combination of parts of words, precisely answering to the modern 



INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 237 

English Humbug (which, indeed, they expressed by the figurative 
phrase, A Camel made of sand), there is no doubt that they were 
conversant with so common a thing, and further that the thing was 
expressly meant to be designated in the general title of the Arabic 
manuscript now before us. Dispensing with further explanation, 
we at once commence the specimens we shall occasionally present, 
of this literary curiosity. 

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

Among the ancient Kings of Persia who extended their glorious 
conquests into the Indies, and far beyond the famous River Ganges, 
even to the limits of China, Taxedtaurus (or Fleeced Bull) was 
incomparably the most renowned. He was so rich that he scorned 
to undertake the humblest enterprise without inaugurating it by 
ordering his Treasurers to throw several millions of pieces of gold 
into the dirt. For the same reason he attached no value to his 
foreign possessions, but merely used them as playthings for a little 
while, and then always threw them away or lost them. 

This wise Sultan, though blessed with innumerable sources of 
happiness, was afflicted with one fruitful cause of discontent. He 
had been married many scores of times, yet had never found a wife 
to suit him. Although he had raised to the dignity of Howsa 
Kummauns ^ (or Peerless Chatterer), a great variety of beautiful 
creatures, not only of the lineage of the high nobles of his court, 
but also selected from other classes of his subjects, the result had 
uniformly been the same. They proved unfaithful, brazen, talka- 
tive, idle, extravagant, inefficient, and boastful. Thus it naturally 
happened that a Howsa Kummauns very rarely died a natural 
death, but was generally cut short in some violent manner. 

At length, the young and lovely Reefawm (tliat is to say. Light 
of Reason), the youngest and fairest of all the Sultan's wives, and 
to whom he had looked with hope to recompense him for his many 
disappointments, made as bad a Howsa Kummauns as any of the 
rest. The unfortunate Taxedtaurus took this so much to heart 
that he fell into a profound melancholy, secluded himself from ob- 
servation, and for some time was so seldom seen or heard of that 
many of his great officers of state supposed him to be dead. 

Shall I never, said the unhappy monarch, beating his breast in 
his retirement in the Pavilion of Failure, and giving vent to his 
tears, find a Howsa Kummauns who will be true to me ! He then 
quoted from the Poet, certain verses importing, Every Howsa Kum- 
mauns has deceived me, Every Howsa Kummauns is a Humbug, I 

1 Sounded like House o' Commons. 



238 REPRINTED PIECES. 

must slay the present Howsa Kummauns as I have slain so many- 
others, I am brought to shame and mortification, I am despised by 
the world. After which his grief so overpowered him, that he 
fainted away. 

It happened that on recovering his senses he heard the voice of 
the last-made Howsa Kummauns, in the Divan adjoining. Apply- 
ing his ear to the lattice, and finding that that shameless Princess 
was vaunting her loyalty and virtue, and denying a host of facts — 
which she always did, all night — the Sultan drew his scimitar in 
a fury, resolved to put an end to her existence. 

But, the Grand Vizier Parmarstoon (or Twirling Weathercock), 
who was at that moment watching his incensed master from behind 
the silken curtains of the Pavilion of Failure, hurried forward and 
prostrated himself, trembling, on the ground. This Vizier had 
newly succeeded to Abaddeen (or the Addled), who had for his 
misdeeds been strangled with a garter. 

The breath of the slave, said the Vizier, is in the hands of his 
Lord, but the Lion will sometimes deign to listen to the croaking 
of the frog. I swear to thee, Vizier, replied the Sultan, that I 
have borne too much already and will bear no more. Thou and 
the Howsa Kummauns are in one story, and by the might of Allah 
and the beard of the Prophet, I have a mind to destroy ye both. 

When the Vizier heard the Sultan thus menace him with destruc- 
tion, his heart drooped within him. Byt, being a brisk and busy 
man, though stricken in years, he quoted certain lines from the 
Poet, implying that the thunder-cloud often spares the leaf or there 
would be no fruit, and touched the ground with his forehead in 
token of submission. What wouldst thou say? demanded the 
generous Prince. I give thee leave to speak. Thou art not unac- 
customed to public speaking, speak glibly ! Sire, returned the 
Vizier, but for the dread of the might of my Lord, I would reply 
in the words addressed by the ignorant man to the Genie. And 
what were those words ? demanded the Sultan. Repeat them ! 
Parmarstoon replied, To hear is to obey : 



THE STORY OF THE IGNORANT MAN AND THE GENIE. 

Sire, on the barbarous confines of the kingdom of the Tartars, 
there dwelt an ignorant man, who was obliged to make a journey 
through the great desert of Desolation ; which, as your Majesty 
knows, is sometimes a journey of upwards of three score and ten 
years. He bade adieu to his mother very early in the morning, and 
departed without a guide, ragged, barefoot, and alone. He found 



STORY OF THE IGNORANT MAN AND THE GENIE. 239 

the way surprisingly steep and rugged, and beset by vile serpents 
and strange unintelligible creatures of horrible shapes. It was like- 
wise full of black bogs and pits, into which he not only fell him- 
self, but often had the misfortune to drag other travellers whom he 
encountered, and who got out no more, but were miserably stifled. 

Sire, on the fourteenth day of the journey of the ignorant man 
of the kingdom of the Tartars, he sat down to rest by the side of a 
foul well (being unable to find a better), and there cracked for a 
repast, as he best could, a very hard nut, which was all he had 
about him. He threw the shell anywhere as he stripped it ofi*, and 
having made an end of his meal arose to wander on again, when 
suddenly the air was darkened, he heard a frightful cry, and saw a 
monstrous Genie, of gigantic stature, who brandished a mighty scimi- 
tar in a hand of iron, advancing towards him. Rise, ignorant beast, 
said the monster, as he drew nigh, that I, Law, may kill thee for 
having affronted my ward. Alas, my lord, returned the ignorant 
man, how can I have affronted thy ward whom I never saw 1 He 
is invisible to thee, returned the Genie, because thou art a be- 
nighted barbarian ; but if thou hadst ever learnt any good thing 
thou wouldst have seen him plainly, and wouldst have respected 
him. Lord of my life, pleaded the traveller, how could I learn where 
there are none to teach me, and how affront thy ward whom I 
have not the power to see ? I tell thee, returned the Genie, thaf 
with thy pernicious refuse thou hast struck my ward, Prince Sociee- 
tee, in the apple of the eye ; and because thou hast done this, I 
will be thy ruin. I maim and kill the like of thee by thousands 
every year, for no other crime. And shall I spare thee ? Kneel 
and receive the blow. 

Your Majesty will believe (continued the Grand Vizier) that the 
ignorant man of the kingdom of the Tartars, gave himself up for 
lost when he heard those cruel words. Without so much as re- 
peating the formula of our faith — There is but one Allah, from 
him we come, to him we must return, and who shall resist his will 
(for he was too ignorant even to have heard it), he bent his neck to 
receive the fatal stroke. His head rolled off as he finished saying 
these words : Dread Law, if thou hadst taken half the pains to 
teach me to discern thy ward that thou hast taken to avenge him, 
thou hadst been spared the great account to which I summon thee ! 

Taxedtaurus the Sultan of Persia listened attentively to this 
recital on the part of his Grand Vizier, and when it was concluded 
said with a threatening brow : Expound to me, nephew of a 
dog, the points of resemblance between the Tiger and the Nightin- 
gale, and what thy ignorant man of the accursed kingdom of the 



240 EEPEINTED PIECES. 

Tartars has to do with the false Howsa Kummauns and the glib 
Vizier Parmarstoon ? While speaking he again raised bis glitter- 
ing scimitar. Let not my master sully the sole of his foot by 
crushing an insect, returned the Vizier, kissing the ground seven 
times. I meant but to offer up a petition from the dust, that the 
Light of the eyes of the Faithful would, before striking, deign to 
hear my daughter. What of thy daughter? said the Sultan im- 
patiently, and why should I hear thy daughter any more than the 
daughter of the dirtiest of the dustmen 1 Sire, returned the Vizier, 
I am dirtier than the dirtiest of the dustmen in your Majesty's 
sight, but my daughter is deeply read in the history of every Howsa 
Kummauns who has aspired to your Majesty's favour during many 
years, and if your Majesty would condescend to hear some of the 
Legends she has to relate, they might — What dost thou call thy 
daughter ? demanded the Sultan, interrupting. Hansardadade, re- 
plied the Vizier. Go, said the Sultan, bring her hither, I spare thy 
life until thou shalt return. The Grand Vizier Parmarstoon, on re- 
ceiving the injunction to bring his daughter Hansardadade into the 
royal presence, lost no time in repairing to his palace, which was but 
across the Sultan's gardens, and going straight to the women's apart- 
ments, found Hansardadade surrounded by a number of old women 
who were all consulting her at once. In truth, this affable Princess 
■was perpetually being referred to, by all manner of old women. 
Hastily causing her attendants, when she heard her father's errand, 
to attire her in her finest dress, which outsparkled the sun ; and 
bidding her young sister, Brothartoon (or Chamber Candlestick), 
to make similar preparations and accompany her ; the daughter of 
the Grand Vizier soon covered herself with a rich veil, and said to 
her father, with a low obeisance. Sir, I am ready to attend you, to 
my Lord, the Commander of the Faithful. 

The Grand Vizier, and his daughter, Hansardadade, and her 
young sister Brothartoon, preceded by Mistaspeeka, a black mute, 
the Chief of the officers of the royal Seraglio, went across the 
Sultan's gardens by the way the Vizier had come, and arriving 
at the Sultan's palace, found that monarch on his throne surrounded 
by his principal counsellors and officers of state. They all four 
prostrated themselves at a distance, and waited the Sultan's pleas- 
ure. That gracious Prince was troubled in his mind when he com- 
manded the fair Hansardadade (who, on the whole, was very fair 
indeed), to approach, for he had sworn an oath in the Vizier's ab- 
sence from which he could not depart. Nevertheless, as it must 
be kept, he proceeded to announce it before the assembly. Vizier, 
said he, thou hast brought thy daughter here, as possessing a 
large stock of Howsa Kummauns experience, in the hope of her 



SCARLI TAPA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. 241 

relating something that may soften me under my accumulated 
wrongs. Know that I have solemnly sworn that if her stories fail 
— as I believe they will — to mitigate my wrath, I will have her 
burned and her ashes cast to the winds. Also, I will strangle 
thee and the present Howsa Kummauus, and will take a new one 
every day and strangle her as soon as taken, until I find a good 
and true one. Parmarstoon replied. To hear is to obey. 

Hansardadade then took a one-stringed lute, and sang a length- 
ened song in prose. Its purport was, I am the recorder of brilliant 
eloquence, I am the chronicler of patriotism, I am the pride of 
sages, and the joy of nations. The continued salvation of the 
country is owing to what I preserve, and without it there would 
be no business done. Sweet are the voices of the crow and chough, 
and Persia never never never can have words enough. At the con- 
clusion of this delightful strain, the Sultan and the whole Divan 
were so faint with rapture that they remained in a comatose state 
for seven hours. 

Would your Majesty, said Hansardadade, when all were at length 
recovered, prefer first to hear the story of the Wonderful Camp, or 
the story of the Talkative Barber, or the story of Scarli Tapa and 
the Forty Thieves 1 I would have thee commence, replied the 
Sultan, with the story of the Forty Thieves. 

Hansardadade began, Sire, there was once a poor relation — 
when Brothartoon interposed. Dear sister, cried Brothartoon, it 
is now past midnight, it will be shortly daybreak, and if you are 
not asleep, you ought to be. I pray you, dear sister, by all means 
to hold your tongue to-night, and if my Lord the Sultan will sufi'er 
you to live another day, you can talk to-morrow. The Sultan arose 
with a clouded face, but went out without giving any orders for the 
execution. 



THE STORY OF SCARLI TAPA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. 

Accompanied by the Grand Vizier Parmarstoon, and the black 
mute Mistaspeeka the Chief of the Seraglio, Hansardadade again 
repaired next day to the august presence, and, after making the 
usual prostrations before the Sultan, began thus : 

Sire, there was once a poor relation who lived in a town in the 
dominions of the Sultan of the Indies, and whose name was Scarli 
Tapa. He was the youngest son of a Dowajah — which, as your 
Majesty knows, is a female spirit of voracious appetite, and gener- 
ally with a wig and a carmine complexion, who prowls about old 
houses and preys upon mankind. The Dowajah had attained an 
immense age, in consequence of having been put by an evil Genie 



242 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

on the Penshunlist, or talisman to secure long life ; but, at length 
she very reluctantly died towards the close of a quarter, after 
making the most affecting struggles to live into the half-year. 

Scarli Tapa had a rich elder brother named Cashim, who had 
married the daughter of a prosperous merchant, and lived magnifi- 
cently. Scarli Tapa, on the other hand, could barely support his 
wife and family by lounging about the town and going out to 
dinner with his utmost powers of perseverance, betting on horse- 
races, playing at billiards, and running into debt with everybody 
who would trust him — the last being his principal means of 
obtaining an honest livelihood. 

One day, when Scarli Tapa had strolled for some time along the 
banks of a great river of liquid filth which ornamented that agree- 
able country and rendered it salubrious, he found Ifimself in the 
neighbourhood of the Woods and Forests. Lifting up his eyes, 
he observed in the distance a great cloud of dust. He was not 
surprised to see it, knowing those parts to be famous for casting 
prodigious quantities of dust into the eyes of the Faithful ; but, 
as it rapidly advanced towards him, he climbed into a tree, the 
better to observe it without being seen himself. 

As the cloud of dust approached, Scarli Tapa perceived it from 
his hiding-place to be occasioned by forty mounted robbers, each 
bestriding a severely goaded and heavily laden Bull. The whole 
troop came to a halt at the foot of the tree, and all the robbers 
dismounted. Every robber then tethered his hack to the most 
convenient shrub, gave it a full meal of very bad chafi', and hung 
over his arm the empty sack which had contained the same. Then 
the Captain of the Robbers, advancing to a door in an antediluvian 
rock, which Scarli Tapa had not observed before, and on which 
were the enchanted letters 0. F. F. I. C. E., said, Debrett's Peer- 
age. Open Sesame ! As soon as the Captain of the Robbers had 
uttered these words, the door, obedient to the charm, flew open, 
and all the robbers went in. The Captain went in last, and the 
door shut of itself. 

The robbers stayed so long within the rock that Scarli Tapa 
more than once felt tempted to descend the tree and make off". 
Fearful, however, that they might reappear and catch him before 
he could escape, he remained hidden by the leaves, as patiently as 
he could. At last the door opened, and the forty robbers came 
out. As the Captain had gone in last, he came out first, and stood 
to see the whole troop pass him. When they had all done so, he 
said, Debrett's Peerage. Shut Sesame ! The door immediately 
closed again as before. Every robber then mounted his Bull, ad- 
justing before him his sack well filled with gold, silver and jewels. 



SCARLI TAPA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. 243 

When the Captain saw that they were all ready, he put himself at 
their head, and they rode off by the way they had come. 

Scarli Tapa remained in the tree until the receding cloud of dust 
occasioned by the troop of robbers with their Captain at their head, 
was no longer visible, and then came softly down and approached 
the door. Making use of the words that he had heard pronounced 
by the Captain of the Robbers, he said, after first piously strength- 
ening himself with the remembrance of his deceased mother the 
Dowajah, Debrett's Peerage. Open Sesame ! The door instantly 
flew wide open. 

Scarli Tapa, who had expected to see a dull place, was surprised 
to find himself in an exceedingly agreeable vista of rooms, wliere 
everything was as light as possible, and where vast quantities of 
the finest wheaten loaves, and the richest gold and silver fishes, and 
all kinds of valuable possessions were to be got for the laying hold 
of. Quickly loading himself with as much spoil as he could move 
under, he opened and closed the door as the Captain of the Robbers 
had done, and hurried away with his treasure to his poor home. 

When the wife of Scarli Tapa saw her husband enter their 
dwelling after it was dark, and proceed to pile upon the floor a 
heap of wealth, she cried, Alas ! husband, whom have you taken in, 
now 1 Be not alarmed, wife, returned Scarli Tapa, no one suffers 
but the public. And then told her how he, a poor relation, had 
made his way into Office by the magic words and had enriched 
himself. 

There being more money and more loaves and fishes than they 
knew what to do with at the moment, the wife of Scarli Tapa, 
transported with joy, ran off to her sister-in-law, the wife of Cashim 
Tapa, who lived hard by, to borrow a measure by means of which 
their property could be got into some order. The wife of Cashim 
Tapa looking into the measure when it was brought back, found at 
the bottom of it several of the crumbs of fine loaves and of the 
scales of gold and silver fishes ; upon which, flying into an envious 
rage, she thus addressed her husband : Wretched Cashim, you know 
you are of high birth as the eldest son of a Dowajah, and you think 
you are rich, but your despised younger brother, Scarli Tapa, is in- 
finitely richer and more powerful than you. Judge of his wealth 
from these tokens. At the same time she showed him the measure. 

Cashim, who, since his marriage to the merchant's widow, had 
treated his brother coolly and held him at a distance, was at once 
fired with a burning desire to know how he had become rich. He 
was unable to sleep all night, and at the first streak of day, before 
the summons to morning prayers was heard from the minarets of 
the mosques, arose and went to his brother's house. Dear Scarli 



244 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Tapa, said he, pretending to be very fraternal, what loaves and 
fishes are these that thou hast in thy possession ? Scarli Tapa per- 
ceiving from this discourse that he could no longer keep his secret, 
communicated his discovery to his brotlier, who lost no time in pro- 
viding all things necessary for the stowage of riches, and in repair- 
ing alone to the mysterious door near the Woods and Forests. 

When night came and Cashim Tapa did not return, his relatives 
became uneasy. His absence being prolonged for several days and 
nights, Scarli Tapa at length proceeded to the enchanted door in 
search of him. Opening it by the infallible means, what were his 
emotions to find that the robbers had encountered his brother within, 
and had quartered him upon the spot for ever. 

Commander of the Faithful, when Scarli Tapa beheld the dismal 
spectacle of his brother everlastingly quartered upon Office for hav- 
ing merely uttered the magic words, Debrett's Peerage. Open 
Sesame ! he was greatly troubled in his mind. Feeling the neces- 
sity of hushing the matter up, and putting the best face upon it 
for the family credit, he at once devised a plan to attain that 
object. 

There was in the House where his brother had sat himself down 
on his marriage with the merchant's daughter, a discreet slave 
whose name was Jobbiana. Though a kind of under secretary 
in the treasury department, she was very useful in the dirty work 
of the establishment, and had also some knowledge of the stables, 
and could assist the whippers-in at a pinch. Scarli Tapa, going 
home and taking the discreet slave aside, related to her how her 
master was quartered, and how it was now their business to disguise 
the fact, and deceive the neighbours. Jobbiana replied. To hear is 
to obey. 

Accordingly, before day — for she always avoided daylight — the 
discreet slave went to a certain cobbler whom she knew, and found 
him sitting in his stall in the public street. Good morrow, friend, 
said she, will you bring the tools of your trade and come to a 
House with me ? Willingly, but what to do ? replied the cobbler, 
who was a merry fellow. Nothing against my patriotism and con- 
science, I hope (at which he laughed heartily) ? Not in the least, 
returned Jobbiana, giving him another bribe. But, you must go 
into the House blindfold and with your hands tied ; you don't mind 
that for a job? I don't mind anything for a job, returned the 
cobbler, with vivacity ; I like a job. It is my business to job ; 
only make it worth my while, and I am ready for any job you may 
please to name. At the same time he arose briskly. Jobbiana 
then imparted to him the quartering that had taken place, and 
that he was wanted to cobble the subject up and hide what had 



SCARLI TAPA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. 245 

been done. Is that all ? If it is no more than that, returned the 
cobbler, blind my eyes and tie my hands, and let us cobble away as 
long as you like. 

Sire, the discreet slave blindfolded the cobbler, and tied his 
hands, and took him to the House ; where he cobbled the subject 
up with so much skill, that she rewarded him munificently. We 
must now return to the Captain of the Robbers, whose name was 
Yawyawah, and whose soul was filled with perplexities and anxieties, 
when he visited the cave and found, from the state of the wheaten 
loaves and the gold and silver fishes, that there was yet another 
person who possessed the secret of the magic door. 

Your majesty must know that Yawyawah, Captain of the Rob- 
bers (most of whose forefathers had been rebellious Genii, who never 
had had anything whatever to do with Solomon), sauntering through 
the city, in a highly disconsolate and languid state, chanced to come 
before daylight upon the cobbler working in his stall. Good mor- 
row, honourable friend, said he, you job early. My Lord, returned 
the cobbler, I job early and late. You do well, observed the Cap- 
tain of the Robbers ; but have you light enough ? The less light 
the better, said the cobbler, for my work. Ah ! returned Yaw- 
yawah; why so? Why so ! repeated the cobbler, winking, because I 
can cobble certain businesses best in the dark. When the Captain 
of the Robbers heard him say this, he quickly understood the hint. 
He blindfolded him, and tied his hands, as the discreet slave had 
done, turned his coat, and led him away until he stopped at the 
House. This is the House that was concerned in the quartering 
and cobbling, said he. The Captain set a mark upon it. But Job- 
biana coming by soon afterwards, and seeing what had been done, 
set exactly the same mark upon twenty other Houses in the same 
row. So that in truth they were all precisely alike, and one was 
marked by Jobbiana exactly as another was, and there was not a 
pin to choose between them. 

Thus discomfited, the Captain of the Robbers called his troop 
together and addressed them. My noble, right honourable, honour- 
able and gallant, honourable and learned, and simply honourable, 
friends, said he, it is apparent that we, the old band who for so 
many years have possessed the command of the magic door, are in 
danger of being superseded. In a word, it is clear that there are 
now two bands of robbers, and that we must overcome the opposi- 
tion, or be ourselves vanquished. All the robbers applauded this 
sentiment. Therefore, said the Captain, I will disguise myself as a 
trader — in the patriotic line of business — and will endeavour to 
prevail by stratagem. The robbers as with one voice approved of 
this design. 



246 REPRINTED PIECES. 

The Captain of the Robbers accordingly disguised himself as a 
trader of that sort which is called at the bazaars a patriot, and, hav- 
ing again had recourse to the cobbler, and having carefully observed 
the House, arranged his plans without delay. Feigning to be a dealer 
in soft-soap, he concealed his men in nine-and-thirty jars of that com- 
modity, a man in every jar ; and, loading a number of mules with this 
pretended merchandise, appeared at the head of his caravan one even- 
ing at the House, where Scarli Tapa was sitting on a bench in his 
usual place, taking it (as he generally did in the house.) very coolly. 
My Lord, said the pretended trader, I am a stranger here, and know 
not where to bestow my merchandise for the night. Suffer me then, 
I beseech you, to warehouse it here. Scarli Tapa rose up, showed the 
pretended merchant where to put his goods, and instructed Jobbiana 
to prepare an entertainment for his guest. Also a bath for him- 
self ; his hands being very far from clean. 

The discreet slave, in obedience to her orders, proceeded to pre- 
pare the entertainment and the bath ; but was vexed to discover, 
when it was late and the shops of the dealers were all shut, that 
there was no soft-soap in the house — which was the more unex- 
pected, as there was generally more than enough. Remembering, 
however, that the pretended trader had brought a large stock with 
him, she went to one of the jars to get a little. As she drew near 
to it, the impatient robber witliin, supposing it to be his leader, 
said in a low voice, Is it time for our j^arty to come in ? Jobbiana, 
instantly comprehending the danger, replied, Not yet, but presently. 
She went in this manner to all the jars, receiving the same question, 
and giving the same answer. 

The discreet slave returned into the kitchen, with her presence of 
mind not at all disturbed, and there prepared a lukewarm mess of 
soothing syrup, worn-out wigs, weak milk and water, poppy-heads, 
empty nut-shells, froth, and other similar ingredients. When it 
was sufficiently mawkish, she returned to the jars, bearing a large 
kettle filled with this mixture, poured some of it upon every robber, 
and threw the whole troop into a state of insensibility or submis- 
sion. She then returned to the House, served up the entertain- 
ment, cleared away the fragments, and attired herself in a rich 
dress to dance before her master and his disguised visitor. 

In the course of her dances, which were performed in the slow- 
est time, and during which she blew both her own and the family 
trumpet with extraordinary pertinacity, Jobbiana took care always 
to approach nearer and still nearer to the Captain of the Robbers. 
At length she seized him by the sleeve of his disguise, disclosed him 
in his own dress to her master, and related where his men were, 
and how they had asked Was it time to come in ? Scarli Tapa, so far 



SCARLI TAPA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. 247 

from being angry with the pretended trader, fell upon his neck and 
addressed him in these friendly expressions : Since our object is the 
same and no great difference exists between us, my brother, let 
us form a Coalition. Debrett's Peerage will open Sesame to the 
Scarli Tapas and the Yawyawahs equally, and will shut out the rest 
of mankind. Let it be so. There is plunder enough in the cave. 
So that it is never restored to the original owners and never 
gets into other hands but ours, why should we quarrel overmuch? 
The Captain made a suitable reply and embraced his entertainer. 
Jobbiana, shedding tears of joy, embraced them both. 

Shortly afterwards, Scarli Tapa in gratitude to the wise Jobbiana, 
caused her to be invested with the freedom of the City — where 
she had been very much beloved for many years — and gave her in 
marriage to his own son. They had a large family and a powerful 
number of relations, who all inherited, by right of relationship, the 
power of opening Sesame and shutting it tight. The Yawyawahs 
became a very numerous tribe also, and exercised the same privi- 
lege. This, Commander of the Faithful, is the reason why, in that 
distant part of the dominions of the Sultan of the Indies, all true 
believers kiss the ground seven hundred and seventy-seven times on 
hearing the magic words, Debrett's Peerage — why the talisman of 
Office is always possessed in common by the three great races of the 
Scarli Tapas, the Yawyawahs, and the Jobbianas — why the pub- 
lic affairs, great and small, and all the national enterprises both by 
land and sea are conducted on a system which is the highest peak 
of the mountain of justice, and which always succeeds — why the 
people of that country are serenely satisfied with themselves and 
things in general, are unquestionably the envy of surrounding 
nations, and cannot fail in the inevitable order of events to flourish 
to the end of the world — why all these great truths are incontro- 
vertible, and why all who dispute them receive the bastinado as 
atheists and rebels. 

Here, Hansardadade concluded the story of the Forty Thieves, 
and said. If my Lord the Sultan will deign to hear another narrative 
from the lips of the lowest of his servants, I have adventures yet 
more surprising than these to relate; adventures that are worthy 
to be written in letters of gold. By Allah ! exclaimed the Sul- 
tan, whose hand had been upon his scimitar several times during 
the previous recital, and whose eyes had menaced Parmarstoon 
until the soul of that Vizier had turned to water, what thou hast 
told but now, deserves to be recorded in letters of Brass ! 

Hansardadade was proceeding. Sire, in the great plain at the 
feet of the mountains of Casgar, which is seven weeks' journey 
across — when Brothartoon interrupted her : Sister, it is nearly 



248 REPRINTED PIECES. 

daybreak, and if you are not asleep you ought to be. I pray you, 
dear sister, tell us at present no more of those stories that you 
know so well, but hold your tongue and go to bed. Hansardadade 
was silent, and the Sultan arose in a very indifferent humour and 
gloomily walked out — in great doubt whether he would let her 
live, on any consideration, over another day. 

On the following night, Hansardadade proceeded with : 

THE STORY OF THE TALKATIVE BARBER, 

In the great plain which lies at the feet of the mountains of 
Casgar, which is seven weeks' journey across, there is a city where 
a lame young man was once invited, with other guests, to an enter- 
tainment. Upon his entrance, the company already assembled rose 
up to do him honour, and the host, taking him by the hand, invited 
him to sit down with the rest upon the estrade. At the same time 
the master of the house greeted his visitor with the salutation, 
Allah is Allah, there is no Allah but Allah, may his name be 
praised, and may Allah be with you. 

Sire, the lame young man, who had the appearance of one that 
had suffered much, was about to comply with the invitation of the 
master of the house to seat himself upon the estrade with the rest 
of the company, when he suddenly perceived among them, a Barber. 
He instantly flew back with every token of abhorrence, and made 
towards the door. The master of the house, amazed at this be- 
haviour, stopped him. Sir, exclaimed the young man, I adjure 
you by Mecca, do not stop me, let me go. I cannot without 
horror look upon that abominable Barber. Upon him and upon 
the whole of his relations be the curse of Allah, in return for all I 
have endured from his intolerable levity, and from his talk never 
being to the point or purpose ! With these words, the lame young 
man again made violently towards the door. The guests were as- 
tonished at this behaviour, and began to have a very bad opinion 
of the Barber. 

The master of the house so courteously entreated the lame young 
man to recount to the company the causes of this strong dislike, 
that at length he could not refuse. Averting his head so that he 
might not see the Barber, he proceeded. Gentlemen, you must 
know that this accursed Barber is the cause of my being crippled, 
and is the occasion of all my misfortunes. I became acquainted 
with him in the following manner. 

I am called Publeek, or the Many Headed. I am one of a 
large family, who have undergone an infinite variety of adventures 
and afflictions. One day, I chanced to sit down to rest on a seat 



THE STORY OF THE TALKATIVE BARBER. 249 

in a narrow lane, when a lattice over against me opened, and I 
obtained a glimpse of the most ravishing Beauty in the world. 
After watering a pot of budding flowers which stood in tlie win- 
dow, she perceived me and modestly withdrew ; but, not before she 
had directed towards me a glance so full of charms, that I screamed 
aloud with love and became insensible for a considerable time. 

When I came to myself, I directed a favourite slave to make 
inquiries among the neighbours, and, on pain of death, to bring me 
an exact account of the young lady's family and condition. The 
slave acquitted himself so well, that he informed me within an 
hour that the young lady's name was Fair Guvawnment, and 
that she was the daughter of the chief Cadi. The violence of my 
passion became so great that I took to my bed that evening, fell 
into a fever, and was reduced to the brink of death, when an old 
lady of my acquaintance came to see me. Son, said she, after ob- 
serving me attentively, I perceive that your disease is love. In- 
form me who is the object of your affections, and rely upon me 
to bring you together. This address of the good old lady's had 
such an effect upon me, that I immediately arose quite restored in 
health, and began to dress myself. 

In a word (continued the lame young man, addressing the com- 
pany assembled in the house of the citizen of the plain at the 
feet of the mountains of Casgar, and always keeping his head in 
such a position as that he could not see the Barber), the old lady 
exerted herself in my behalf with sucli effect, that on the very next 
day she returned, commissioned by the enchantress of my soul to 
appoint a meeting between us. I arranged to attire myself in my 
richest clothes, and despatched the same favourite slave with in- 
structions to fetch a Barber, who knew his business, and who 
could skilfully prepare me for the interview I was to have, for the 
first time in all my life, with Fair Guvawnment. Gentlemen, the 
slave returned with the wretch whom you see here. 

Sir, began this accursed Barber whom a malignant destiny thus 
inflicted on me, how do you do, I hope you are pretty well. I do 
not wish to praise myself, but you are lucky to have sent for me. 
My name is Peaymiah. In me you behold an accomplished di- 
plomatist, a first-rate statesman, a frisky speaker, an easy shaver, 
a touch-and-go joker, a giver of the go-by to all complainers, and 
above all a member of the aristocracy of Barbers. Sir, I am a lin- 
eal descendant of the Prophet, and consequently a born Barber. 
All my relations, friends, acquaintances, connections, and associates 
are likewise lineal descendants of the Prophet, and consequently 
born Barbers every one. As I said, but the other day, to Lay- 
AEDEEN, or the Troublesome, the aristocracy — May Allah con- 



250 REPRINTED PIECES. 

found thy aristocracy and thee ! cried I, will you begin to shave 
me? 

Gentlemen (proceeded the lame young man), the Barber had 
brought a showy case with him, and he consumed such an immense 
time in pretending to open it, that I was well nigh fretted to death. 
I will not be shaved at all, said I. Sir, returned the unabashed 
Barber, you sent for me to shave you, and with your pardon I will 
do it, whether you like it or not. Ah, Sir ! you have not so good 
an opinion of me as your father had. I knew your father, and he 
appreciated me. I said a thousand pleasant things to him, and 
rendered him a thousand services, and he adored me. Just Heaven, 
he would exclaim, you are an inexhaustible fountain of wisdom, no 
man can plumb the depth of your profundity. My dear sir, I 
would reply, you do me more honour than I deserve. Still, as a 
lineal descendant of the Prophet, and one of the aristocracy of 
born Barbers, I will, with the help of Allah, shave you pretty close 
before I have done with you. 

You may guess, gentlemen, in my state of expectancy, with my 
heart set on Fair Guvawnment, and the precious time running by, 
how I cursed this impertinent chattering on the part of the Barber. 
Barber of mischief, Barber of sin. Barber of false pretence. Barber 
of froth and bubble, said I, stamping my foot upon the ground, will 
you begin to do your work ? Fair and softly, sir, said he, let me 
count you out first. With that, he counted from one up to thirty- 
eight with great deliberation, and then laughed heartily and went 
out to look at the weather. 

When the Barber returned, he went on prattling as before. You 
are in high feather, Sir, he said. I am glad to see you look so well. 
But, how can you be otherwise than flourishing, after having sent 
for me ! I am called the Careless. I am not like Dizzee, who draws 
blood ; nor like Darbee, who claps on blisters ; nor like Johnnee, 
who works with the square and rule ; I am the easy shaver, and I care 
for nobody, I can do anything. Shall I dance the dance of Mistapit 
to please you, or shall I sing the song of Mistafoks, or joke the joke 
of Jomillah ? Honour me with your attention while I do all three. 

The Barber (continued the lame young man, with a groan) 
danced the dance of Mistapit, and sang the song of Mistafoks, and 
joked the joke of Jomillah, and then began with fresh imperti- 
nences. Sir, said he, with a lofty flourish, when Britteen first at 
Heaven's command, arose from out the azure main, this was the 
charter of the land, and guardian angels sang this strain : Sing- 
ing, as First Lord was a wallerking the OflBce-garding around, no 
end of born Barbers he picked up and found, says he, I will load 
them with silver and gold, for the country's a donkey, and as such 



THE STORY OF THE BARMECIDE FEAST. 251 

is sold. ■ — At this point I could bear his insolence no longer, but 
starting up, cried, Barber of hollowness, by what consideration am 
I restrained from falling upon and strangling thee ? Calmly, Sir, 
said he, let me count you out first. He then played his game of 
counting from one to under forty, and again laughed heartily, and 
went out to take the height of the sun, and make a calculation of 
the state of the wind, that he might know whether it was an au- 
spicious time to begin to shave me. 

I took the opportunity (said the young man) of flying from my 
house so darkened by the fatal presence of this detestable Barber, 
and of repairing with my utmost speed to the house of the Cadi. 
But, the appointed hour was long past, and Fair Guvawnment had 
withdrawn no one knew whither. As I stood in the street cursing 
my evil destiny and execrating this intolerable Barber, I heard a 
hue and cry. Looking in the direction whence it came, I saw the 
diabolical Barber, attended by an immense troop of his relations 
and friends, the lineal descendants of the Prophet and aristocracy 
of born Barbers, all offering a reward to any one who v/ould stop 
me, and all proclaiming the unhappy Publeek to be their natural 
prey and rightful property. I turned and fled. They jostled and 
bruised me cruelly among them, and I became maimed, as you see. 
I utterly detest, abominate, and abjure this Barber, and ever since 
and evermore I totally renounce him. With these concluding 
words, the lame young man arose in a sullen way that had some- 
thing very threatening in it, and left the company. 

Commander of the Faithful, when the lame young man was 
gone, the guests, turning to the Barber, who wore his turban very 
much on one side and smiled complacently, asked him what he had 
to say for himself. The Barber immediately danced the dance of 
Mistapit, and sang the song of Mistafoks, and joked the joke of 
Jomillah. Gentlemen, said he, not at all out of breath after these 
performances, it is true that I am called the Careless ; permit me 
to recount to you, as a lively diversion, what happened to a twin 
brother of that young man who has so undeservedly abused me, in 
connection with a near relation of mine. No one objecting, the 
Barber related : 



THE STORY OF THE BARMECIDE FEAST, 

The young man's twin brother, Guld Publeek, was in very poor 
circumstances and hardly knew how to live. In his reduced con- 
dition he was fain to go about to great men, begging them to take 
him in — and to do them justice, they did it extensively. 

One day in the course of his poverty-stricken wanderings, he 



252 REPRINTED PIECES. 

came to a large house with two high towers, a spacious hall, and 
abundance of fine gilding, statuary, and painting. Although the 
house was far from finished, he could see enough to assure him 
that enormous sums of money must be lavished upon it. He 
inquired who was the master of this wealthy mansion, and received 
for information that he was a certain Barmecide. (The Barmecide, 
gentlemen, is my near relation, and, like myself, a lineal descendant 
of the Prophet, and a born Barber.) 

The young man's twin brother passed through the gateway, and 
crept submissively onward, until he came into a spacious apartment, 
where he descried the Barmecide sitting at the upper end of the 
post of honour. The Barmecide asked the young man's brother 
what he wanted. My Lord, replied he, in a pitiful tone, I am 
sore distressed, and have none but high and mighty nobles likjB 
yourself to help me. That much at least is true, returned the 
Barmecide ; there is no help save in high and mighty nobles, it is 
the appointment of Allah. But, what is your distress ? My Lord, 
said the young man's brother, I am fasting from all the nourish- 
ment I want, and — whatever you may please to think — am in 
a dangerous extremity. A very little more at any moment, and 
you would be astonished at the figure I should make. Is it so, 
indeed? inquired the Barmecide. Sir, returned the young man's 
brother, I swear by Heaven and Earth that it is so, and Heaven 
and Earth are every hour drawing nearer to the discovery that it 
is so. Alas, poor man ! replied the Barmecide, pretending to have 
an interest in him. Ho, boy ! Bring us of the best here, and let 
us not spare our liberal measures. This poor man shall make good 
cheer without delay. 

Though no boy appeared, gentlemen, and though there was no 
sign of the liberal measures of which the Barmecide spoke so osten- 
tatiously, the young man's brother, Guld Publeek, endeavoured to 
fall in with the Barmecide's humour. Come ! cried the Barmecide, 
feigning to pour water on his hands, let us begin fair and fresh. 
How do you like this purity'? Ah, my Lord, returned Guld 
Publeek, imitating the Barmecide's action, this is indeed purity : 
this is in truth a delicious beginning. Then let us proceed, said 
the Barmecide, seeming to dry his hands, with this smoking dish 
of Reefawm. How do you like it ? Fat ? At the same time he 
pretended to hand choice morsels to the young man's brother. 
Take your fill of it, exclaimed the Barmecide, there is plenty here, 
do not spare it, it was cooked for you. May Allah prolong your 
life, my Lord, said Guld Publeek, you are liberal indeed ! 

The Barmecide having boasted in this pleasant way of his smok- 
ing dish of Reefawn, which had no existence, affected to call for 



THE STORY OF THE BARMECIDE FEAST. 253 

another dish. Ho ! cried he, clapping his hands, bring in those 
Educational Kabobs. Then, he imitated the action of putting 
some upon the plate of the young man's brother, and went on. 
How do you like these Educational Kabobs 1 The cook who made 
them is a treasure. Are they not justly seasoned ? Are they not 
so honestly made as to be adapted to all digestions ? You want 
them very much, I know, and have wanted them this long time. 
Do you enjoy them ? And here is a delicious mess, called Foreen 
Leejun. Eat of it also, for I pride myself upon it, and expect it 
to bring me great respect and much friendship from distant lands. 
And this pillau of Church-endowments-and-duties, which you see 
so beautifully divided, pray how do you approve of this pillau? 
It was invented on your account, and no expense has been spared 
to render it to your taste. Ho, boy, bring in that ragout. Now 
here, my friend, is a ragout, called Law-of-Partnership. It is 
expressly made for poor men's eating, and I particularly pride 
myself upon it. This is indeed a dish at which you may cut and 
come again. And boy ! hasten to set before my good friend, Guld 
Publeek, the rare stew of colonial spices, minced crime, hashed 
poverty, swollen liver of ignorance, stale confusion, rotten tape, 
and chopped-up bombast, steeped in official sauce, and garnished 
with a great deal of tongue and a very little brains — the crowning 
dish, of which my dear friend never can have enough, and upon 
which he thrives so well. But, you don't eat with an appetite, 
my brotlier, said the Barmecide. I fear the repast is hardly to 
your liking? Pardon me, my benefactor, returned the guest, 
whose jaws ached with pretending to eat, I am full almost to the 
throat. 

Well then, said the Barmecide, since you have dined so well, 
try the dessert. Here are apples of discord from the Horse Guards 
and Admiralty, here is abundance of the famous fruit from the 
Dead Sea that turns to ashes on the lips, here are dates from the 
Peninsula in great profusion, and here is a fig for the nation. Eat 
and be happy. My Lord, replied the object of his merriment, I 
am quite worn out by your liberality, and can bear no more. 

Gentlemen (continued the loquacious Barber), when the humor- 
ous Barmecide, my near relation lineally descended from the 
Prophet, had brought his guest to this pass, he clapped his hands 
three times to summon around him his slaves, and instructed them 
to force in reality the vile stew of which he had spoken down the 
throat of the hungry Guld Publeek, together with a nauseous mess 
called DuBLiNCUMTAX, and to put bitters in his drink, strew dust 
on his head, blacken his face, shave his eyebrows, pluck away his 
beard, insult him, and make merry with him. He then caused 



254 REPRINTED PIECES. 

him to be attired in a shameful dress and set upon an ass with his 
face to the tail, and in this state to be publicly exposed with the 
inscription round his neck, This is the punishment of Guld Pub- 
leek who asked for nourishment and said he wanted it. Such is 
the present droll condition of this person ; while my near relation, 
the Barmecide, sits in the post of honour with his turban very 
much on one side, enjoying the joke. Which I think you will all 
admit is an excellent one. 

Hansardadade having made an end of the discourse of the loqua- 
cious Barber, would have instantly begun another story, had not 
Brothartoon shut her up with. Dear Sister, it will be shortly day- 
break. Get to bed and be quiet. 



Household Words, Vol. 11, June 23, 1855. 
* SMUGGLED RELATIONS. 

When I was a child I remember to have had my ears boxed for 
informing a lady-visitor who made a morning call at our house, 
that a certain ornamental object on the table, which was covered 
with marbled-paper, "wasn't marble." Years of reflection upon 
this injury have fully satisfied me that the honest object in ques- 
tion never imposed upon anybody; further, that my honoured 
parents, though both of a sanguine temperament, never can have 
conceived it possible that it might, could, should, would, or did, 
impose upon anybody. Yet, I have no doubt that I had my ears 
boxed for violating a tacit compact in the family and among the 
family visitors, to blink the stubborn fact of the marbled paper, 
and agree upon a fiction of real marble. 

Long after this, when my ears had been past boxing for a quar- 
ter of a century, I knew a man with a cork leg. That he had a 
cork leg — or, at all events, that he was at immense pains to take 
about with him a leg which was not his own leg, or a real leg — 
was so plain and obvious a circumstance, that the whole universe 
might have made affidavit of it. Still, it was always understood 
that this cork leg was to be regarded as a leg of flesh and blood, 
and even that the very subject of cork in the abstract was to be 
avoided in the wearer's society. 

I have had my share of going about the world ; wherever I have 
been, I have found the marbled paper and the cork leg. I have 
found them in many forms ; but, of all their Protean shapes, at 
once the commonest and strangest has been — Smuggled Relations. 



SMUGGLED RELATIONS. 255 

1 was on intimate terms for many, many years, with my late 
lamented friend, Cogsford, of the great Greek house of Cogsford 
Brothers and Cogsford. I was his executor. I believe he had no 
secrets from me but one — his mother. That the agreeable old 
lady who kept his house for him ivas his mother, must be his 
mother, couldn't possibly be anybody but his mother, was evident : 
not to me alone, but to everybody who knew him. She was not a 
refugee, she was not proscribed, she was not in hiding, there was 
no price put upon her venerable head ; she was invariably liked 
and respected as a good-humoured, sensible, cheerful old soul. 
Then why did Cogsford smuggle his mother all the days of his 
life ? I have not the slightest idea why. I cannot so much as 
say whether she had ever contracted a second marriage, and her 
name was really Mrs. Bean : or whether that name was bestowed 
upon her as a part of the smuggling transaction. I only know 
that there she used to sit at one end of the hospitable table, the 
living image in a cap of Cogsford at the other end, and that Cogs- 
ford knew that I knew who she was. Yet, if I had been a Cus- 
tom-house officer at Folkestone and Mrs. Bean a French clock that 
Cogsford was furtively bringing froni Paris in a hat-box, he could 
not have made her the subject of a more determined and deliberate 
pretence. It was prolonged for years upon years. It survived the 
good old lady herself. One day I received an agitated note from 
Cogsford, entreating me to go to him immediately; I went, and 
found him weeping and in the greatest affliction. " My dear friend," 
said he, pressing my hand, "I have lost Mrs. Bean. She is no 
more." I went to the funeral with him. He was in the deepest 
grief. He spoke of Mrs. Bean on the way back, as the best of 
women. But, even then he never hinted that Mrs. Bean was his 
mother ; and the first and last acknowledgment of the fact that I 
ever had from him was in his last will, wherein he entreated " his 
said dear friend and executor " to observe that he requested to be 
buried beside his mother — whom he didn't even name, he was so 
perfectly confident that I had detected Mrs. Bean. 

I was once acquainted with another man who smuggled a brother. 
This contraband relative made mysterious appearances and disap- 
pearances, and knew strange things. He was called John — simply 
John. I have got into a habit of believing that he must have been 
under a penalty to forfeit some weekly allowance if he ever claimed 
a surname. He came to light in this way; — I wanted some in- 
formation respecting the remotest of the Himalaya range of moun- 
tains, and I applied to my friend Benting (a member of the 
Geographical Society, and learned on such points) to advise me. 
After some consideration, Benting said, in a half-reluctant and con- 



256 REPRINTED PIECES. 

strained way, very unlike his usual frank manner, that he " thought 
he knew a man " who could tell me, of his own experience, what I 
wanted to learn. An appointment was made for a certain evening 
at Benting's house. I arrived first, and had not observed for more 
than five minutes that Benting was under a curious cloud, when 
his servant announced — in a hushed, and I may say unearthly 
manner — " Mr. John." A rather stiff" and shabby person appeared, 
who called Benting by no name whatever (a singularity that I 
always observed whenever I saw them together afterwards), and 
whose manner was curiously divided between fiimiliarity and dis- 
tance. I found this man to have been all over the Indies, and to 
possess an extraordinary fund of traveller's experience. It came 
from him drily at first ; but he warmed, and it flowed freely until 
he happened to meet Benting's eye. Then, he subsided again, and 
(it appeared to me) felt himself, for some unknown reason, in dan- 
ger of losing that weekly allowance. This happened a dozen times 
in a couple of hours, and not the least curious part of the matter 
was, that Benting himself was always as much disconcerted as the 
other man. It did not occur to me that night, that this was Bent- 
ing's brother, for I had known him very well indeed for years, and 
had always understood him to have none. Neither can I now re- 
call, nor if I could, would it matter, by what degrees and stages I 
arrived at the knowledge. However this may be, I knew it, and 
Benting knew that I knew it. But, we always preserved the 
fiction that I could have no suspicion that there was any sort of 
kindred or affinity between them. He went to Mexico, this John 
— and he went to Australia — and he went to China — and he 
died somewhere in Persia — and one day, when we went down to 
dinner at Benting's, I would find him in the dining-room, already 
seated (as if he had just been counting the allowance on the table- 
cloth), and another day I would hear of him as being among scar- 
let parrots in the tropics ; but, I never knew whether he had ever 
done anything wrong, or whether he had ever done anything right, 
or why he went about the world, or how. As I have already signi- 
fied, I get into habits of believing ; and I have got into a habit of 
believing that Mr. John had something to do with the dip of the 
magnetic needle — he is all vague and shadowy to me, however, 
and I only know him for certain to have been a smuggled relation. 
Other people, again, put these contraband commodities entirely 
away from the light, as smugglers of wine and brandy bury tubs. 
I have heard of a man who never imparted, to his most intimate 
friend, the terrific secret that he had a relation in the world, except 
when he lost one by death ; and then he would be weighed down 
by the greatness of the calamity, and would refer to his bereave- 



SMUGGLED RELATIONS. 257 

ment as if he had lost the very shadow of himself, from whom he 
had never been separated since the days of infancy. Within my 
own experience, I have observed smuggled relations to possess a 
wonderful quality of coming out when they die. My own dear 
Tom, who married my fourth sister, and who is a great smug- 
gler, never fails to speak to me of one of his relations newly de- 
ceased, as though, instead of never having in the remotest way 
alluded to that relative's existence before, he had been perpetually 
discoursing of it. " My poor, dear, darling Emmy," he said to me, 
within these six months, "she is gone — I have lost her." Never 
until that moment had Tom breathed one syllable to me of the 
existence of any Emmy whomsoever on the face of this earth, in 
whom he had the smallest interest. He had scarcely allowed me 
to understand, very distantly and generally, that he had some rela- 
tions — " my people," he called them — down in Yorkshire. " My 
own dear, darling Emmy," says Tom, notwithstanding, " she has 
left me for a better world." (Tom must have left her for his own 
world, at least fifteen years.) I repeated, feeling my way, " Emmy, 
Tom"?" "My favourite niece," said Tom, in a reproachful tone, 
" Emmy you know. I was her godfather, you remember. Dar- 
ling, fair-haired Emmy ! Precious, blue-eyed child." Tom burst 
into tears, and we both understood that henceforth the fiction was 
established between us that I had been quite familiar with Emmy 
by reputation, through a series of years. 

Occasionally, smuggled relations are discovered by accident : just 
as those tubs may be, to which I have referred. My other half — 
I mean, of course, my wife — once discovered a large cargo in this 
way, which had long been concealed. In the next street to us, 
lived an acquaintance of ours, who was a Commissioner of some- 
thing or other, and kept a handsome establishment. We used to 
exchange dinners, and I have frequently heard him at his own 
table mention his father as a " poor dear good old boy," who had 
been dead for any indefinite period. He was rather fond of telling 
anecdotes of his very early days, and from them it appeared that 
he had been an only child. One summer afternoon, my other half, 
walking in our immediate neighbourhood, happened to perceive 
Mrs. Commissioner's last year's bonnet (to every inch of which, it 
is unnecessary to add, she could have sworn), going along before 
her on somebody else's head. Having heard generally of the 
swell mob, my good lady's first impression was, that the wearer of 
this bonnet belonged to that fraternity, had just abstracted the 
bonnet from its place of repose, was in every sense of the term 
walking off with it, and ought to be given into the custody of the 
nearest policeman. Fortunately, however, my Susannah, who is 



268 REPRINTED PIECES. 

not distinguished by closeness of reasoning or presence of mind, 
reflected, as it were by a flash of inspiration, that the bonnet might 
have been given away. Curious to see to whom, she quickened her 
steps, and descried beneath it, an ancient lady of an iron-bound 
presence, in whom (for my Susannah has an eye) ' she instantly 
recognised the lineaments of the Commissioner. Eagerly pursuing 
this discovery, she, that very afternoon, tracked down an ancient 
gentleman in one of the Commissioner's hats. Next day she came 
upon the trail of four stony maidens decorated with artificial flowers 
out of the Commissioner's epergne; and thus we dug up the 
Commissioner's father and mother and four sisters, who had been 
for some years secreted in lodgings round the corner and never en- 
tered the Commissioner's house save in the dawn of morning and 
the shades of evening. From that time forth, whenever my Su- 
sannah made a call at the Commissioner's, she always listened on 
the doorstep for any slight preliminary scuffling in the hall, and,, 
hearing it, was delighted to remark, "The family are here, and 
they are hiding them." 

I have never been personally acquainted with any gentleman 
who kept his mother-in-law in the kitchen, in the useful capacity 
of Cook ; but I have heard of such a case on good authority. I 
once lodged in the house of a genteel lady claiming to be a widow, 
who had four pretty children, and might be occasionally overheard 
coercing an obscure man in a sleeved waistcoat, who appeared to 
be confined in some Pit below the foundations of the house, where 
he was condemned to be always cleaning knives. One day, the 
smallest of the children crept into my room, said, pointing down- 
ward with a little chubby finger, " Don't tell ! It's Pa ! " and 
vanished on tiptoe. 

One other branch of the smuggling trade demands a word of 
mention before I conclude. My friend of friends in my bachelor 
days became the friend of the house when I got married. He is 
our Amelia's godfather ; Amelia being the eldest of our cherubs. 
Through upwards of ten years he was backwards and forwards at 
our house three or four times a week, and always found his knife 
and fork ready for him. What was my astonishment on coming 
home one day, to find Susannah sunk upon the oil-cloth in the 
hall, holding her brow with both hands, and meeting my gaze, 
when I admitted myself with my latch-key, in a distracted man- 
ner. "Susannah!" I exclaimed, "what has happened?" She 
merely ejaculated "Larver" — that being the name of the friend 
in question. "Susannah," said I, "what of Larver? Speak! 
Has he met with any accident ? Is he ill ? " Susannah replied 
faintly, " Married — married before we were ! " and would have 



THE GREAT BABY. 259 

gone into hysterics but that I make a rule of never permitting that 
disorder under my roof. 

Tor upwards of ten years, my bosom friend Larver, in close 
communication with me every day, had smuggled a wife. He had 
at last confided the truth to Susannah, and had presented Mrs. 
Larver. There was no kind of reason for this, that we could ever 
find out. Even Susannah had not a doubt of things being all cor- 
rect. He had "run" Mrs. Larver into a little cottage in Hert- 
fordshire, and nobody ever knew why, or ever will know. In fact, 
I believe there was no why in it. 

The most astonishing part of the matter is, that I have known 
other men do exactly the same thing. I could give the names of 
a dozen in a footnote, if I thought it right. 



Household Words, Vol. 12, No. 280, Aug. 4, 1855. 
*THE GREAT BABY. 

Has it occurred to any of our readers that that is surely an 
unsatisfactory state of society which presents, in the year eighteen 
hundred and fifty-five, the spectacle of a committee of the People's 
representatives pompously and publicly inquiring how the People 
shall be trusted with the liberty of refreshing themselves in humble 
taverns and tea-gardens on their day of rest ? Does it appear to 
any one whom we now address, and who will pause here to reflect 
for a moment on the question we put, that there is anything at all 
humiliating and incongruous in the existence of such a body, and 
pursuit of such an inquiry, in this country, at this time of day 1 

For ourselves, we will answer the question without hesitation. 
We feel indignantly ashamed of the thing as a national scandal. 
It would be merely contemptible, if it were not raised into impor- 
tance by its slanderous aspersions of a hard-worked, heavily-taxed, 
but good-humoured and most patient people, who have long de- 
served far better treatment. In this green midsummer, here is a 
committee virtually inquiring whether the English can be regarded 
in any other light, and domestically ruled in any other manner, 
than as a gang of drunkards and disorderlies on a Police charge- 
sheet ! my Lords and Gentlemen, my Lords and Gentlemen, 
have we got so very near Utopia after our long travelling together 
over the dark and murderous road of English history, that we have 
nothing else left to say and do to the people but this 1 Is there 
nothing abroad, nothing at home, nothing seen by us, nothing 
hidden from us, which points to higher and more generous things 1 



260 REPRINTED PIECES. 

There are two public bodies remarkable for knowing nothing of 
the people, and for perpetually interfering to put them right. 
The one is the House of Commons ; the other the Monomaniacs. 
Between the Members and the Monomaniacs, the devoted People, 
quite unheard, get harried and worried to the last extremity. 
Everybody of ordinary sense, possessing common sympathies with 
necessities not their own, and common means of observation — 
Members and Monomaniacs are of course excepted — has perceived 
for months past, that it was manifestly impossible that the People 
could or would endure the inconveniences and deprivations sought 
to be imposed upon them by the latest Sunday restrictions. We 
who write this have again and again by word of mouth forewarned 
many scores both of Members and Monomaniacs, as we have heard 
others forewarn them, that what they were in the densest ignorance 
allowing to be done could not be borne. Members and Monoma- 
niacs knew better, or cared nothing about it ; and we all know the 
rest — to this time. 

Now, the Monomaniacs, being by their disease impelled to 
clamber upon platforms, and there squint horribly under the strong 
possession of an unbalanced idea, will of course be out of reason 
and go wrong. But, why the Members should yield to the Mono- 
maniacs is another question. And why do they ? Is it because 
the People is altogether an abstraction to them ; a Great Baby, to 
be coaxed and chucked under the chin at elections, and frowned 
upon at quarter sessions, and stood in the corner on Sundays, and 
taken out to stare at the Queen's coach on holidays, and kept in 
school under the rod, generally speaking, from Monday morning to 
Saturday night? Is it because they have no other idea of the 
People than a big-headed Baby, now to be flattered and now to be 
scolded, now to be sung to and now to be denounced to old 
Boguey, now to be kissed and now to be whipped, but always to 
be kept in long clothes, and never under any circumstances to feel 
its legs and go about of itself 1 We take the liberty of replying, 
yes. 

And do the Members and Monomaniacs suppose that this is our 
discovery? Do they live in the shady behef that the object of 
their capricious dandling and punishing does not resentfully per- 
ceive that it is made a Great Baby of, and may not begin to kick 
thereat with legs that may do mischief? 

In the first month of the existence of this Journal, we called 
attention to a detachment of the Monomaniacs, who, under the 
name of jail-chaplains, had taken possession of the prisons, and 
were clearly offering premiums to vice, promoting hypocrisy, and 
making models of dangerous scoundrels. They had their way, 



THE GREAT BABY. 261 

and the Members backed them; and now their Pets recruit the 
very worst class of criminals known. The Great Baby, to whom 
this copy was set as a moral lesson, is supposed to be perfectly 
unimpressed by the real facts, and to be entirely ignorant of them. 
So, down at Westminster, night after night, the Right Honourable 
Gentleman the Member for Somewhere, and the Honourable Gentle- 
man the Member for Somewherelse, badger one another, to the 
infinite delight of their adherents in the cockpit; and when the 
Prime Minister has released his noble bosom of its personal injuries, 
and has made his jokes and retorts for the evening, and has said 
little and done less, he winds up with a standard form of words 
respecting the vigorous prosecution of the war, and a just and 
honourable peace, which are especially let oft' upon the Great Baby ; 
which Baby is always supposed never to have heard before ; and 
which it is understood to be a part of Baby's catechism to be 
powerfully affected by. And the Member for Somewhere, and the 
Member for Somewherelse, and the Noble Lord, and all the rest 
of the Honourable House, go home to bed, really persuaded that 
the Great Baby has been talked to sleep. 

Let us see how the unfortunate Baby is addressed and dealt 
with, in the inquiry concerning his Sunday eatings and drinkings 
— as wild as a nursery rhyme, and as inconclusive as Bedlam. 

The Great Baby is put upon his trial. A mighty noise of creak- 
ing boots is heard in an outer passage. good gracious, here's an 
official personage ! Here's a solemn witness ! Mr. Gamp, we 
believe you have been a dry-nurse to the Great Baby for some 
years ? Yes, I have. — Intimately acquainted with his character ? 
Intimately acquainted. — As a police magistrate, Mr. Gamp 1 As 
a police magistrate. (Sensation.) — Pray, Mr. Gamp, would you 
allow a working man, a small tradesman, clerk, or the like, to go 
to Hampstead or to Hampton Court at his own convenience on a 
Sunday, with his family, and there to be at liberty to regale him- 
self, and them, in a tavern where he could buy a pot of beer and 
a glass of gin-and- water ? I would on no account concede that 
permission to any person. — Will you be so kind as to state why, 
Mr. Gamp ? — Willingly. Because I have presided for many years 
at the Bo-peep office, and have seen a great deal of drunkenness 
there. A large majority of the Bo-peep charges are charges against 
persons of the lowest class, of having been found drunk and incapa- 
ble of taking care of themselves. — Will you instance a case, Mr. 
Gamp ? I will instance the case of Sloggins. — Was that a man 
with a broken nose, a black eye, and a bull-dog ? Precisely so. — 
Was Sloggins frequently the subject of such a charge ? Continu- 
ally ; I may say, constantly. — Especially on Monday ? Just so. 



262 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

Especially on Monday. — And therefore you would shut the public- 
houses, and particularly the suburban public-houses, against the 
free access of working people on Sunday? Most decidedly so. 
(Mr. Gamp retires, much complimented.) 

Naughty Baby, attend to the Reverend Single Swallow. Mr. 
Swallow, you have been much in the confidence of thieves and 
miscellaneous miscreants? I have the happiness to believe that 
they have made me the unworthy depositary of their unbounded 
confidence. — Have they usually confessed to you that they have 
been in the habit of getting drunk ? Not drunk ; upon that point 
I wish to explain. Their ingenuous expression has generally been, 
"lushy." — But those are convertible terms ? I apprehend they are ; 
still, as gushing freely from a penitent breast, I am weak enough 
to wish to stipulate for lushy ; I pray you bear with me. — Have 
you reason, Mr. Swallow, to believe that excessive indulgence in 
" lush " has been the cause of these men's crimes ? yes indeed. 
yes ! — Do you trace their ofi'ences to nothing else ? They have 
always told me, that they themselves traced them to nothing else 
worth mentioning. — Are you acquainted with a man named Slog- 
gins ? yes ! I have the truest affection for Sloggins. — Has he 
made any confidence to you that you feel justified in disclosing, 
bearing on this subject of becoming lushy ? Sloggins, when in soli- 
tary confinement, informed me, every morning for eight months, 
always with tears in his eyes, and uniformly at five minutes past 
eleven o'clock, that he attributed his imprisonment to his having 
partaken of rum-and-water at a licensed house of entertainment, 
called (I use his own words) The Wiry Tarrier. . He never ceased 
to recommend that the landlord, landlady, young family, potboy, 
and the whole of the frequenters of that establishment, should be 
taken up. — Did you recommend Sloggins for a commutation of his 
term, on a ticket of leave ? I did. — Where is he now ? I believe 
he is in Newgate now. — Do you know what for ? Not of my own 
knowledge, but I have heard that he got into trouble through 
having been weakly tempted into the folly of garroting a market 
gardener. — Where was he taken for this last offence ? At The 
Wiry Tarrier on a Sunday. — It is unnecessary to ask you, Mr. 
Single Swallow, whether you therefore recommend the closing of 
all public-houses on a Sunday ? Quite unnecessary. 

Bad Baby, fold your hands and listen to the Reverend Temple 
Pharisee, who will step out of his carriage at the Committee Door, 
to give you a character that will rather astonish you. Mr. Temple 
Pharisee, you are the incumbent of the extensive rectory of Camel- 
cum-Needle's-eye ? I am. — Will you be so good as to state your 
experience of that district on a Sunday ? Nothing can be worse. 



THE GREAT BABY. 263 

That part of the Rectory of Camel-cum-Needle's-eye in which my 
principal church is situated, abuts upon the fields. As I stand in 
the pulpit, I can actually see the people through the side windows 
of the building (when the heat of the weather renders it necessary 
to have them open), walking. I have, on some occasion, heard 
them laughing. Whistling has reached my curate's ears (he is an 
industrious and well-meaning young man) ; but I cannot say I 
have heard it myself — Is your church well frequented ? No. I 
have no reason to complain of the Pew-portion of my flock, who 
are eminently respectable ; but, the Free seats are comparatively 
deserted : which is the more emphatically deplorable, as there are 
not many of them. — Is there a Railway near the church ? I re- 
gret to state that there is, and that I hear the rush of the trains, 
even while I am preaching. — Do you mean to say that they do 
not slacken speed for your preaching ? Not in the least. — Is 
there anything else near the church, to which you would call the 
Committee's attention ? At the distance of a mile and a half and 
three rods (for my clerk has measured it by my direction), there is a 
common public-house with tea-gardens, called The Glimpse of Green. 
In fine weather these gardens are filled with people on a Sunday 
evening. Frightful scenes take place there. Pipes are smoked ; 
liquors mixed with hot water are drunk; shrimps are eaten; 
cockles are consumed ; tea is swilled ; ginger-beer is loudly ex- 
ploded. Young women with their young men ; young men with 
their young women ; married people with their children ; baskets, 
bundles, little chaises, wicker-work perambulators, every species of 
low abomination, is to be observed there. As the evening closes 
in, they all come straggling home together through the fields ; and 
the vague sounds of merry conversation which then strike upon 
the ear, even at the farther end of my dining-room (eight-and- 
thirty feet by twenty-seven), are most distressing. I consider The 
Glimpse of Green irreconcilable with public morality. — Have you 
heard of pickpockets resorting to this place 1 I have. My clerk 
informed me that his uncle's brother-in-law, a marine store-dealer 
who went there to observe the depravity of the people, missed his 
pocket-handkerchief when he reached home. Local ribaldry has rep- 
resented him to be one of the persons who had their pockets picked 
at St. Paul's Cathedral on the last occasion when the Bishop of 
London preached there. I beg to deny this ; I know those indi- 
viduals very well, and they were people of condition. — Do the mass 
of the inhabitants of your district work hard all the week? I 
believe they do. — Early and late 1 My curate reports so. — Are 
their houses close and crowded 1 I believe they are. — Abolishing 
The Glimpse of Green, where would you recommend them to go 



264 EEPRINTED PIECES. 

on a Sunday ? I should say to church. — Where after church ? 
Really, that is their affair ; not mine. 

Adamantine-hearted Baby, dissolve into scalding tears at sight 
of the next witness, banging his head and beating his breast. He 
was one of the greatest drunkards in the world, he tells you. 
When he was drunk, he was a very demon — and he never was 
sober. He never takes any strong drink now, and is as an angel of 
light. And because this man never could use without abuse ; and 
because he imitated the Hysena or other obscene animal, in not 
knowing, in the ferocity of his appetites, what Moderation was ; 
therefore, Big-headed Baby, you perceive that he must become 
as a standard for you ; and for his backslidings you shall be put in 
the corner evermore. 

Ghost of John Bunyan, it is surely thou who usherest into 
the Committee Room the volunteer testifier, Mr. Monomaniacal 
Patriarch ! Baby, a finger in each eye, and ashes from the nearest 
dust-bin on your wretched head, for it is all over with you now. 
Mr. Monomaniacal Patriarch, have you paid great attention to 
drunkenness ? Immense attention, unspeakable attention. — For 
how many years ? Seventy years. — Mr. Monomaniacal Patriarch, 
have you ever been in Whitechapel 1 Millions of times. — Did 
you ever shed tears over the scenes you have witnessed there? 
Oceans of tears. — Mr. Monomaniacal Patriarch, will you proceed 
with your testimony 1 Yes ; I am the only man to be heard on 
the subject ; I am the only man who knows anything about it. 
No connection with any other establishment ; all others are im- 
postors ; I am the real original. Other men are said to have 
looked into these places, and to have worked to raise them out of 
the Slough of Despond. Don't believe it. Nothing is genuine 
unless signed by me. I am the original fly with the little eye. 
Nobody ever mourned over the miseries and vices of the lowest of 
the low, but I. Nobody has ever been haunted by them, waking 
and sleeping, but I. Nobody would raise up the sunken wretches, 
but I. Nobody understands how to do it, but I. Do you think 
the People ever really want any beer or liquors to drink ? Certainly 
not. I know all about it, and I know they don't. — Do you think 
they ever ought to have any beer or liquor to drink 1 Certainly 
not. I know all about it, and I know they oughtn't. — Do you 
think they could suffer any inconvenience from having their beer 
and liquor entirely denied them 1 Certainly not. I know all about 
it, and I know they couldn't. 

Thus, the Great Baby is dealt with from the beginning to the 
end of the chapter. It is supposed equally by the Members and 
by the Monomaniacs to be incapable of putting This and That 



THE GREAT BABY. 265 

together, and of detecting the arbitrary nonsense of these mon- 
strous deductions. That a whole people — a domestic, reasonable, 
considerate people, whose good-nature and good ^ense are the ad- 
miration of intelligent foreigners, and who are no less certain to 
secure the affectionate esteem of such of their own countrymen as 
will have the manhood to be open with them, and to trust them, 
— that a whole people should be judged by, and made to answer 
and suffer for, the most degraded and most miserable among them, 
is a principle so shocking in its injustice, and so lunatic in its ab- 
surdity, that to entertain it for a moment, is to exhibit profound 
ignorance of tlie English mind and character. In Monomaniacs 
this may be of great significance, but in Members it is alarming ; 
for, if they cannot be brought to understand the People for whom 
they make laws, and if they so grievously under-rate them, how is 
it to be hoped that they, and the laws, and the People, being such 
a bundle of anomalies, can possibly thrive together ? 

It is not necessary for us, or for any decent person to go to 
AVestminster, or anywhere else, to make a flourish against intem- 
perance. We abhor it ; would have no drunkard about us, on any 
consideration ; would thankfully see the child of our heart dead 
in his baby beauty, rather than he should live and grow with the 
shadow of such a horror upon him. In the name of Heaven, let 
drunkards and ruffians restrain themselves and be restrained by all 
conceivable means — but, not govern, bind, and defame, the tem- 
perance, the industry, the rational wants and decent enjoyments of 
a whole toiling nation ! We oppose those virtuous Malays who 
run amuck out of the House of Peers or Exeter Hall, as much as 
those vicious Malays who run amuck out of Sailors' lodging-houses 
in Rotherhithe. We have a constitutional objection in both cases 
to being stabbed in the back, and we claim that the one kind of 
Monomaniac has no more right than the other to gash and dis- 
figure honest people going their peaceable way. Lastly, we hum- 
bly beg to assert and protest with all the vigour that is in us, that 
the People is, in sober truth and reality, something very consider- 
ably more than a Great Baby ; that it has come to an age when it 
can distinguish sound from sense ; that mere jingle will not do for 
it ; in a word, that the Great Baby is growing up, and had best be 
measured accordingly. 



266 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 12, No. 288, Sept. 29, 1855. 
OUT OF TOWN. 

Sitting, on a bright September morning, among my books and 
papers at my open window on the cliff overhanging the sea-beach, 
I have the sky and ocean framed before me like a beautiful picture. 
A beautiful picture, but with such movement in .it, such changes 
of light upon the sails of ships and wake of steam-boats, such daz- 
zling gleams of silver far out at sea, such fresh touches on the crisp 
wave-tops as they break and roll towards me — a picture with such 
music in the billowy rush upon the shingle, the blowing of morn- 
ing wind through the corn-sheaves where the farmers' waggons are 
busy, the singing of the larks, and the distant voices of children at 
play — such charms of sight and sound as all the Galleries on earth 
can but poorly suggest. 

So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I 
may have been here, for anything I know, one hundred years. Not 
that I have grown old, for, daily on the neighbouring downs and 
grassy hill-sides, I find that I can still in reason walk any distance, 
jump over anything, and climb up anywhere ; but, that the sound 
of the ocean seems to have become so customary to my musings, 
and other realities seem so to have gone aboard ship and floated 
away over the horizon, that, for aught I will undertake to the con- 
trary, I am the enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in a 
tower on the sea-shore, for protection against an old she-goblin who 
insisted on being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font — • 
wonderful creature ! — that I should get into a scrape before I was 
twenty-one. I remember to have been in a City (my Royal par- 
ent's dominions, I suppose), and apparently not long ago either, 
that was in the dreariest condition. The principal inhabitants had 
all been changed into old newspapers, and in that form were pre- 
serving their window-blinds from dust, and wrapping all their 
smaller household gods in curl-papers. I walked through gloomy 
streets where every house was shut up and newspapered, and where 
my solitary footsteps echoed on the deserted pavements. In the 
public rides there were no carriages, no horses, no animated exist- 
ence, but a few sleepy policemen, and a few adventurous boys tak- 
ing advantage of the devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts. In 
the Westward streets there was no traffic ; in the W^estward shops, 
no business. The water-patterns which the 'Prentices had trickled 
out on the pavements early in the morning, remained uneffaced by 
human feet. At the corners of mews. Cochin- China fowls stalked 



OUT OF TOWN. 2G7 

gaunt and savage ; nobody being left in the deserted city (as it ap- 
peared to me), to feed them. Public Houses, where splendid foot- 
men swinging their legs over gorgeous hammer-cloths beside wigged 
coachmen were wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter 
pots shone, too bright for business, on the shelves. I beheld a 
Punch's Show leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it had 
fainted. It was deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. 
In Belgrave Square I met the last man — an ostler — sitting on a 
post in a ragged red waistcoat, eating straw, and mildewing away. 

If I recollect the name of the little town, on whose shore this 
sea is murmuring — but I am not just now, as I have premised, to 
be relied upon for anything — it is Pavilionstone. Within a quarter 
of a century, it was a little fishing town, and they do say, that the 
time was, when it was a little smuggling town. I have heard that 
it was rather famous in the hollands and brandy way, and that 
coevally with that reputation the lamplighter's was considered a 
bad life at the Assurance offices. It was observed that if he were 
not particular about lighting up, he lived in peace ; but that, if he 
made the best of the oil-lamps in the steep and narrow streets, he 
usually fell over the clif!' at an early age. Now, gas and electricity 
run to the very water's edge, and the South Eastern Eailway Com- 
pany screech at us in the dead of night. 

But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so 
tempting a place for the latter purpose, that I think of going out 
some night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat trousers, and 
running an empty tub, as a kind of archneological pursuit. Let 
nobody with corns come to Pavilionstone, for there are breakneck 
flights of ragged steps, connecting the principal streets by back-ways, 
which will cripple that visitor in half-an-hour. These are the ways 
by whicli, when I run that tub, I shall escape. I shall make a 
Thermopylae of the corner of one of them, defend it with my cut- 
lass against the coast-guard until my brave companions have sheered 
off, then dive into the darkness, and regain my Susan's arms. In 
connection with these breakneck steps I observe some wooden cot- 
tages, with tumble-down out-houses, and back-yards three feet 
square, adorned with garlands of dried fish, in one of which (though 
the General Board of Health might object) my Susan dwells. 

The South Eastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into 
such vogue, with their tidal trains and splendid steam-packets, that 
a new Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pavilion- 
stone. We are a little mortary and limey at present, but we are 
getting on capitally. Indeed, we were getting on so fast, at one 
time, that we rather overdid it, and built a street of shops, the busi- 
ness of which may be expected to arrive in about ten years. We 



268 REPEINTED PIECES. 

are sensibly laid out in general ; and with a little care and pains 
(by no means wanting, so far) shall become a very pretty place. 
We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our air is delicious, 
and our breezy hills and downs, carpeted with wild thyme, and deco- 
rated with millions of wild flowers, are, on the faith of a pedestrian, 
perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a little too much addicted 
to small windows with more bricks in them than glass, and we are 
not over-fanciful in the way of decorative architecture, and we get 
unexpected sea-views through cracks in the street doors ; on the 
whole, however, we are very snug and comfortable, and well accom- 
modated. But the Home Secretary (if there be such an officer) can- 
not too soon shut up the burial-ground of the old parish church. It 
is in the midst of us, and Pavilionstone will get no good of it, if it 
be too long left alone. 

The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen years ago, 
going over to Paris by South Eastern Tidal Steamer, you used to 
be dropped upon the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Sta- 
tion (liot a junction then), at eleven o'clock on a dark winter's 
night, in a roaring wind ; and in the howling wilderness outside the 
station, was a short omnibus which brought you up by the forehead 
the instant you got in at the door ; and nobody cared about you, 
and you were alone in the world. You bumped over infinite chalk, 
until you were turned out at a strange building which had just 
left off being a barn without having quite begun to be house, where 
nobody expected your coming, or knew what to do with you when 
you were come, and where you were usually blown about, until 
you happened to be blown against the cold beef, and finally into 
bed. At five in the morning you were blown out of bed, and after 
a dreary breakfast, with crumpled company, in the midst of con- 
fusion, were hustled on board a steam-boat and lay wretched on deck 
until you saw France lunging and surging at you with great vehe- 
mence over the bowsprit. 

Now, you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, 
an irresponsible agent, made over in trust to the South Eastern 
Company, until you get out of the railway-carriage at high-water 
mark. If you are crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing 
to do but walk on board and be happy there if you can — I can't. 
If you are going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest 
porters under the sun, whose cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome, 
shoulder your luggage, drive it off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, 
and enjoy themselves in playing athletic games with it. If you are 
for public life at our great Pavilionstone Hotel, you walk into that 
establishment as if it were your club ; and find ready for you, your 
news-room, dining-room, smoking-room, billiard-room, music-room. 



OUT OF TOWN. 269 

public breakfast, public dinner twice a day (one plain, one gorgeous), 
hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be bored, there are 
plenty of bores always ready for you, and from Saturday to Mon- 
day in particular you can be bored (if you like it) through and 
through. Should you want to be private at our Great Pavilionstone 
Hotel, say but the word, look at the list of charges, choose your 
floor, name your figure — there you are, established in your castle, 
by the day, week, month, or year, innocent of all comers or goers, 
unless you have my fancy for walking early in the morning down 
the groves of boots and shoes, which so regularly flourish at all the 
chamber-doors before breakfast, that it seems to me as if nobody 
ever got up or took them in. Are you going across the Alps, and 
would you like to air your Italian at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel ? 
Talk to the Manager — always conversational, accomplished, and 
polite. Do you want to be aided, abetted, comforted, or advised, 
at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Send for the good landlord, 
and he is your friend. Should you, or any one belonging to you, 
ever be taken ill at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not soon 
forget him or his kind wife. And when you pay your bill at our 
Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not be put out of humour by 
anything you find in it. 

A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was 
a noble place. But no such inn would have been equal to the 
reception of four or five hundred people, all of them wet through, 
and half of them dead sick, every day in the year. This is where 
we shine, in our Pavilionstone Hotel. Again — who, coming and 
going, pitching and tossing, boating and training, hurrying in, and 
flying out, could ever have calculated the fees to be paid at an old- 
fashioned house? In our Pavilionstone Hotel vocabulary, there 
is no such word as fee. Everything is done for you ; every service 
is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge ; all the prices are 
hung up in all the rooms ; and you can make out your own bill 
beforehand, as well as the book-keeper. 

In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying at 
small expense the physiognomies and beards of diff'erent nations, 
come, on receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the 
nations of the earth, and all the styles of shaving and not shaving, 
hair cutting and hair letting alone, for ever flowing through our 
hotel. Couriers you shall see by hundreds ; flit leathern bags for 
five-franc pieces, closing with violent snaps, like discharges of fire- 
arms, by thousands ; more luggage in a morning than, fifty years 
ago, all Europe saw in a week. Looking at trains, steam-boats, 
sick travellers, and luggage, is our great Pavilionstone recreation. 
We are not strong in other public amusements. We have a Literary 



270 ' KEPRINTED PIECES. 

and Scientific Institution, and we have a Working Men's Institution 
— may it hold many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with the 
kettle boiling, the band of music playing, and the people dancing ; 
and may I be on the hill-side, looking on with pleasure at a whole- 
some sight too rare in England ! — and we have two or three churches, 
and more chapels than I have yet added up. But public amuse- 
ments are scarce with us. If a poor theatrical manager comes with 
his company to give us, in a loft, Mary Bax, or the Murder on the 
Sand Hills, we don't care much for him — starve him out, in fact. 
We take more kindly to wax- work, especially if it moves ; in which 
case it keeps much clearer of the second commandment than when 
it is still. Cooke's Circus (Mr, Cooke is my friend, and always 
leaves a good name behind him) gives us only a night in passing 
through. Nor does the travelling menagerie think us w^orth a longer 
visit. It gave us a look-in the other day, bringing with it the resi- 
dentiary van with the stained-glass windows, which Her Majesty 
kept ready-made at Windsor Castle, until she found a suitable op- 
portunity of submitting it for the proprietor's acceptance. I brought 
away five wonderments from this exhibition. I have wondered 
ever since, Whether the beasts ever do get used to those small 
places of confinement ; Whether the monkeys have that very horri- 
ble flavour in their free state ; Whether wild animals have a natural 
ear for time and tune, and therefore every four-footed creature began 
to howl in despair when the band began to play ; What the giraffe 
does with his neck when his cart is shut up ; and. Whether the 
elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is brought out of his 
den to stand on his head in the presence of the whole Collection. 

We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied 
already in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a 
heap of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men 
in big boots always shovel and scoop : with what exact object, I 
am unable to say. At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats 
turn over on their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters ; the 
colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate in the mud ; the 
steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke more, 
and their red paddles never turn again ; the green sea-slime and 
weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obso- 
lete high tides never more to flow : the flagstaff-halyards droop ; 
the very little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the 
sun. And here I may observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, 
that when it is lighted at night, — red and green, — it looks so 
like a medical man's, that several distracted husbands have at vari- 
ous times been found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, 
going round and round it, trying to find the Nightbell. 



OUT OF TOWN. 271 

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilion stone 
Harbour begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water 
before the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the 
little shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the 
vanes at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide 
rises, the fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaft' 
hoists a bright red flag, the steam-boat smokes, cranes creak, horses 
and carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage ap- 
pear. Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to 
look at the wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, 
load away as hard as they can load. Now, the steamer smokes 
immensely, and occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a vapor- 
ous whale — greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the 
tide and the breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on 
(if you want to see how the ladies hold their hats on, with a stay, 
passing over the broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilion- 
stone). Now, everything in the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. 
Now, the Down Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without 
knowing how you know), that two hundred and eighty-seven people 
are coming. Now, the fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at 
the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses 
and shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and the two hundred 
and eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide 
of water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage — all tum- 
bling and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infi- 
nite bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all 
delighted when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and 
are all disappointed when she don't. Now, the other steamer is 
coming in, and the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labour- 
ers assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel 
Porters come rattling down with van and truck, eager to begin 
more Olympic games with more luggage. And this is the way in 
which we go on, down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if you 
want to live a life of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe sweet 
air which will send you to sleep at a moment's notice at any period 
of the day or night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to 
scamper about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of 
all or any of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone. 



272 REPRINTED PIECES. 

Household Words, Vol. 13, No. 327, June 28, 1856. 
OUT OF THE SEASON. 

It fell to my lot, this last bleak spring, to find myself in a water- 
ing-place out of the season. A vicious north-east squall blew 
me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three 
days, resolved to be exceedingly busy. 

On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at 
the sea, and staring the Foreign Militia out of countenance. Having 
disposed of these important engagements, I sat down at one of the 
two windows of my room, intent on doing something desperate in 
the way of literary composition, and writing a chapter of unheard- 
of excellence — with which the present essay has no connection. 

It is a remarkable quality in a watering-place out of the season, 
that everything in it, will and must be looked at. I had no previ- 
ous suspicion of this fatal truth ; but, the moment I sat down to 
write, I began to perceive it. I had scarcely fallen into my most, 
promising attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found 
the clock upon the pier — a redfaced clock with a white rim — 
importuning me in a highly vexatious manner to consult my watch, 
and see how I was off for Green wich time. Having no intention 
of making a voyage or taking an observation, I had not the least 
need of Greenwich time, and could have put up with watering- 
place time as a sufficiently accurate article. The pier-clock, how- 
ever, persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down my pen, compare 
my watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about half-sec- 
onds. I had taken up my pen again, and w^as about to commence 
that valuable chapter, when a Custom-house cutter under the win- 
dow requested that I would hold a naval review of her, immedi- 
ately. 

It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental reso- 
lution, merely human, to dismiss the Custom-house cutter, because 
the shadow of her topmast fell upon my paper, and the vane played 
on the masterly blank chapter. I was therefore under the necessity 
of going to the other window ; sitting astride of the chair there, 
like Napoleon bivouacking in the print ; and inspecting the cutter 
as she lay, ! all that day, in the way of my chapter. She was 
rigged to carry a quantity of canvas, but her hull was so very small 
that four giants aboard of her (three men and a boy) who were vig- 
ilantly scraping at her, all together, inspired me with a terror lest 
they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, who appeared to con- 
sider himself " below " — as indeed he was, from the waist down- 



OUT OF THE SEASON. 273 

wards — meditated, in such close proximity with the little gusty 
chimney-pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it. Several boys 
looked on from the wharf, and, when the gigantic attention 
appeared to be fully occupied, one or other of these would furtively 
swing himself in mid-air over the Custom-house cutter, by means 
of a line pendant from her rigging, like a young spirit of the storm. 
Presently, a sixth hand brought down two little water-casks ; pres- 
ently afterwards, a truck came, and delivered a hamper. I was 
now under an obligation to consider that the cutter was going on a 
cruise, and to wonder where she was going, and when she was go- 
ing, and why she was going, and at what date she might be 
expected back, and who commanded her? With these pressing 
questions I was fully occupied when the Packet, making ready to 
go across, and blowing off her spare steam, roared, " Look at me ! " 

It became a positive duty to look at the Packet preparing to go 
across ; aboard of which, the people newly come down by the rail- 
road were hurrying in a great fluster. The crew had got their 
tarry overalls on — and one knew what that meant — not to men- 
tion the white basins, ranged in neat little piles of a dozen each, 
behind the door of the after-cabin. One lady as I looked, one 
resigning and far-seeing woman, took her basin from the store of 
crockery, as she might have taken a refreshment-ticket, laid herself 
down on deck with that utensil at her ear, muffled her feet in one 
shawl, solemnly covered her countenance after the antique manner 
with another, and on the completion of these preparations appeared 
by the strength of her volition to become insensible. The mail- 
bags (0 that I myself had the sea-legs of a mail-bag !) were tumbled 
aboard ; the Packet left off" roaring, warped out, and made at the 
white line upon the bar. One dip, one roll, one break of the sea 
over her bows, and Moore's Almanack or the sage Raphael could 
not have told me more of the state of things aboard, than I 
knew. 

The famous chapter was all but begun now, and would have been 
quite begun, but for the wind. It was blowing stiffly from the 
east, and it rumbled in the chimney and shook the house. That 
was not much ; but, looking out into the wind's grey eye for inspira- 
tion, I laid down my pen again to make the remark to myself, how 
emphatically everything by the sea declares that it has a great con- 
cern in the state of the wind. The trees blown all one way ; the 
defences of the harbour reared highest and strongest against the rag- 
ing point ; the shingle flung up on the beach from the same direc- 
tion ; the number of arrows pointed at the common enemy ; the 
sea tumbling in and rushing towards them as if it were inflamed by 
the sight. This put it in my head that I really ought to go out 



274 REPRINTED PIECES. 

and take a walk in the Mdnd ; so, I gave up the magnificent chap- 
ter for that day, entirely persuading myself that I was under a 
moral obligation to have a blow. 

I had a good one, and that on the higli road — the very high road 
— on the top of the cliffs, where I met the stage-coach with all the 
outsides holding their hats on and themselves too, and overtook a 
flock of sheep with the wool about their necks blown into such 
great ruffs that they looked like fleecy owls. The wind played 
upon the lighthouse as if it were a great whistle, the spray was 
driven over the sea in a cloud of haze, the ships rolled and pitched 
heavily, and at intervals long slants and flaws of light made moun- 
tain-steeps of communication between the ocean and the sky. A 
walk of ten miles brought me to a seaside town without a cliff, 
which, like the town I had come from, was out of the season too. 
Half of the houses were shut up ; half of the other half were to let ; 
the town might have done as much business as it was doing then, 
if it had been at the bottom of the sea. Nobody seemed to flourish 
save the attorney ; his clerk's pen was going in the bow-window of 
his wooden house ; his brass door-plate alone was free from salt, 
and had been polished up that morning. On the beach, among the 
rough luggers and capstans, groups of storm-beaten boatmen, like 
a sort of marine monsters, watched under the lee of those objects, or 
stood leaning forward against the wind, looking out through bat- 
tered spy-glasses. The parlour bell in the Admiral Benbow had 
grown so flat with being out of the season, that neither could I hear 
it ring when I pulled the handle for lunch, nor could the young 
woman in black stockings and strong shoes, who acted as waiter 
out of the season, until it had been tinkled three times. 

Admiral Benbow's cheese was out of the season, but his home- 
made bread was good, and his beer was perfect. Deluded by some 
earlier spring day which had been warm and sunny, the Admiral 
had cleared the firing out of his parlour stove, and had put some 
flower-pots in — which was amiable and hopeful in the Admi- 
ral, but not judicious : the room being, at that present visiting, 
transcendently cold. I therefore took the liberty of peeping out 
across a little stone passage into the Admiral's kitchen, and, seeing 
a high settle with its back towards me drawn out in front of the 
Admiral's kitchen fire, I strolled in, bread and cheese in hand, 
munching and looking about. One landsman and two boatmen 
were seated on the settle, smoking pipes and drinking beer out of 
thick pint crockery mugs — mugs peculiar to such places, with 
parti-coloured rings round them, and ornaments between the rings 
like frayed-out roots. The landsman was relating his experience, 
as yet only three nights old, of a fearful running-down case in the 



OUT OF THE SEASON 275 

Channel, and therein presented to my imagination a sound of music 
that it will not soon forget. 

"At that identical moment of time," said he (he was a prosy- 
man by nature, who rose with his subject), "the night being light 
and calm, but with a grey mist upon the water that didn't seem to 
spread for more than two or three mile, I was walking up and 
down the wooden causeway next the pier, off where it happened, 
along with a friend of mine, which his name is Mr. Clocker. Mr. 
Clocker is a grocer over yonder." (From the direction in which he 
pointed the bowl of his pipe, I might have judged Mr. Clocker to 
be a merman, established in a grocery trade in five-and-twenty 
fathoms of water.) "We were smoking our pipes, and walking 
up and down the causeway, talking of one thing and talking of 
another. We were quite alone there, except that a few hov- 
ellers " (the Kentish name for long-shore boatmen like his compan- 
ions) " were hanging about their lugs, waiting while the tide made, 
as hovellers will." (One of the two boatmen, thoughtfully regard- 
ing me, shut up one eye ; this I understood to mean : first, that 
he took me into the conversation : secondly, that he confirmed the 
proposition : thirdly, that he announced himself as a hoveller.) 
" All of a sudden Mr. Clocker and me stood rooted to the spot, by 
hearing a sound come through the stillness, right over the sea, like 
a gy^eat sorroivful flute 07^ uEolian harp. We didn't in the least 
know what it was, and judge of our surprise when we saw the 
hovellers, to a man, leap into the boats and tear about to hoist sail 
and get off, as if they had every one of 'em gone, in a moment, rav- 
ing mad ! But they knew it was the cry of distress from the sink- 
ing emigrant ship." 

When I got back to my watering-place out of the season, and had 
done my twenty miles in good style, I found that the celebrated 
Black Mesmerist intended favouring the public that evening in the 
Hall of the Muses, which he had engaged for the purpose. After 
a good dinner, seated by the fire in an easy chair, I began to waver 
in a design I had formed of waiting on the Black Mesmerist, and to 
incline towards the expediency of remaining where I was. Indeed 
a point of gallantry was involved in my doing so, inasmuch as I 
had not left France alone, but had come from the prisons of St. 
P^lagie with my distinguished and unfortunate friend Madame Ro- 
land (in two volumes which I bought for two francs each, at the 
bookstall in the Place de la Concorde, Paris, at the corner of the 
Rue Royale). Deciding to pass the evening tete-k-tete with Ma- 
dame Roland, I derived, as I always do, great pleasure from that 
spiritual woman's society, and the charms of her brave soul and en- 
gaging conversation. I must confess that if she had only some 



276 REPRINTED PIECES. 

more faults, only a few more passionate failings of any kind, I might 
love her better ; but I am content to believe that the deficiency is in 
me, and not in her. We spent some sadly interesting hours together 
on this occasion, and she told me again of her cruel discharge from the 
Abbaye, and of her being rearrested before her free feet had sprung 
lightly up half-a-dozen steps of her own staircase, and carried off to 
the prison which she only left for the guillotine. 

Madame Roland and I took leave of one another before midnight, 
and I went to bed full of vast intentions for next day, in connection 
with the unparalleled chapter. To hear the foreign mail-steamers 
coming in at dawn of day, and to know that I was not aboard or 
obliged to get up, was very comfortable ; so, I rose for the chapter 
in great force. 

I had advanced so far as to sit down at my window again on my 
second morning, and to write the first half-line of the chapter and 
strike it out, not liking it, when my conscience reproached me with 
not having surveyed the watering-place out of the season, after all, 
yesterday, but with having gone straight out of it at the rate of 
four miles and a half an hour. Obviously the best amends that I 
could make for this remissness was to go and look at it without an- 
other moment's delay. So — altogether as a matter of duty — I 
gave up the magnificent chapter for another day, and sauntered out 
with my hands in my pockets. 

All the houses and lodgings ever let to visitors were to let that 
morning. It seemed to have snowed bills with To Let upon them. 
This put me upon thinking what the owners of all those ajmrtments 
did, out of the season ; how they employed their time, and occu- 
pied their minds. They could not be always going to the Meth- 
odist chapels, of which I passed one every other minute. They 
must have some other recreation. Whether they pretended to take 
one another's lodgings, and opened one another's tea-caddies in fun? 
Whether they cut slices off their own beef and mutton, and made 
believe that it belonged to somebody else ? Whether they played 
little dramas of life, as children do, and said, " I ought to come and 
look at your apartments, and you ought to ask two guineas a week 
too much, and then I ought to say I must have the rest of the day 
to think of it, and then you ought to say that another lady and gen- 
tleman with no children in family had made an offer very close to 
your own terms, and you had passed your word to give them a 
positive answer in half-an-hour, and indeed were just going to take 
the bill down when you heard the knock, and then I ought to take 
them you know ? " Twenty such speculations engaged my thoughts. 
Then, after passing, still clinging to the walls, defaced rags of the 
bills of last year's Circus, I came to a back field near a timber-yard 



OUT OF THE SEASON. 277 

where the Circus itself had been, and where there was yet a sort of 
monkish tonsure on the grass, indicating the spot where the young 
lady had gone round upon her pet steed Firefly in her daring flight. 
Turning into the town again, I came among the shops, and they 
were emphatically out of the season. The chemist had no boxes of 
ginger-beer powders, no beautifying sea-side soaps and washes, no 
attractive scents; nothing but his great goggle-eyed red bottles, 
looking as if the winds of winter and the drift of the salt-sea had 
inflamed them. The grocers' hot pickles, Harvey's Sauce, Doctor 
Kitchener's Zest, Anchovy Paste, Dundee Marmalade, and the 
whole stock of luxurious helps to appetite, were hibernating some- 
where underground. The china-shop had no trifles from anywhere. 
The Bazaar had given in altogether, and presented a notice on the 
shutters that this establishment would reopen at Whitsuntide, and 
that the proprietor in the meantime might be heard of at Wild 
Lodge, East Cliff". At the Sea-bathing Establishment, a row of 
neat little wooden houses seven or eight feet high, I saiv the pro- 
prietor in bed in the shower-bath. As to the bathing-machines, 
they were (how they got there, is not for me to say) at the top of 
a hill at least a mile and a half off". The library, which I had never 
seen otherwise than wide open, was tight shut ; and two peevish 
bald old gentlemen seemed to be hermetically sealed up inside, eter- 
nally reading the paper. That wonderful mystery, the music-shop, 
carried it oft' as usual (except that it had more cabinet pianos in 
stock), as if season or no season were all one to it. It made the 
same prodigious display of bright brazen wind-instruments, horribly 
twisted, worth, as I should conceive, some thousands of pounds, 
and which it is utterly impossible that anybody in any season can 
ever play or want to play. It had five triangles in the window, 
six pairs of castanets, and three harps ; likewise every polka with 
a coloured frontispiece that ever was published ; from the original 
one where a smooth male and female Pole of high rank are coming 
at the observer with their arms akimbo, to the Ratcatcher's 
Daughter. Astonishing establishment, amazing enigma ! Three 
other shops were pretty much out of the season, what they were 
used to be in it. First, the shop where they sell the sailors' 
watches, which had still the old collection of enormous timekeepers, 
apparently designed to break a fall from the masthead : with places 
to wind them up, like fire-plugs. Secondly, the shop where they 
sell the sailors' clothing, which displayed the old sou'-westers, and 
the old oily suits, and the old pea-jackets, and the old one sea- 
chest, with its handles like a pair of rope ear-rings. Thirdly, the 
unchangeable shop for the sale of literature that has been left 
behind. Here, Dr. Faustus was still going down to very red and 



278 REPRINTED PIECES. 

yellow perdition, under the superintendence of three green person- 
ages of a scaly humour, with excrescential serpents growing out of 
their blade-bones. Here, the Golden Dreamer, and the Norwood 
Fortune Teller, were still on sale at sixpence each, with instructions 
for making the dumb cake, and reading destinies in tea-cups, and 
with a picture of a young woman with a high waist lying on a sofa 
in an attitude so uncomfortable as almost to account for her dream- 
ing at one and the same time of a conflagration, a shipwreck, an 
earthquake, a skeleton, a church-porch, lightning, funerals per- 
formed, and a young man in a bright blue coat and canary panta- 
loons. Here, were Little Warblers and Fairburn's Comic Songsters. 
Here, too, were ballads on the old ballad paper and in the old con- 
fusion of types ; with an old man in a cocked hat, and an arm-chair, 
for the illustration to "Will Watch the Bold Smuggler; and the 
Friar of Orders Grey, represented by a little girl in a hoop, with a 
ship in the distance. All these as of yore, when they were infinite 
delights to me ! 

It took me so long fully to relish these many enjoyments, that I 
had not more than an hour before bedtime to devote to Madame 
Roland. We got on admirably together on the subject of her con- 
vent education, and I rose next morning with the full conviction 
that the day for the great chapter was at last arrived. 

It had fallen calm, however, in the night, and as I sat at break- 
fast I blushed to remember that I had not yet been on the Downs. 
I a walker, and not yet on the Downs ! Eeally, on so quiet and 
bright a morning this must be set right. As an essential part of 
the Whole Duty of Man, therefore, I left the chapter to itself — 
for the present — and went on the Downs. They were wonder- 
fully green and beautiful, and gave me a good deal to do. When 
I had done with the free air and the view, I had to go down into 
the valley and look after the hops (which I know nothing about), 
and to be equally soUcitous as to the cherry orchards. Then I took 
it on myself to cross-examine a tramping family in black (mother 
alleged, I have no doubt by herself in person, to have died last 
week), and to accompany eighteen-pence which produced a great 
effect, with moral admonitions which produced none at all. Finally, 
it was late in the afternoon before I got back to the unprecedented 
chapter, and then I determined that it was out of the season, as 
the place was, and put it away. 

I went at night to the benefit of Mrs. B. Wedgington at the 
Theatre, who had placarded the town with the admonition, " Don't 
FORGET IT ! " I made the house, according to my calculation, four 
and ninepence to begin with, and it may have warmed up, in the 
course of the evening, to half-a-sovereign. There was nothing to 



DOUGLAS JEEROLD. 279 

offend any one — the good Mr. Baines of Leeds excepted. Mrs. B. 
Wedgington sang to a grand piano. Mr. B. Wedgington did the 
like, and also took oS his coat, tucked up his trousers, and danced 
in clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged ten months, was nursed by 
a shivering young person in the boxes, and the eye of Mrs. B. 
Wedgington wandered that way mora than once. Peace be with 
all the Wedgingtons from A. to Z. May they find themselves 
in the Season somewhere ! 



Household Words, Vol. 19, JSfo. 463, Feb. 5, 1859. 
* DOUGLAS JERROLD. 

The different aspects assumed by the variety of subjects which 
find their way, week by week, into the columns of this Journal, 
seem, not unnaturally, to have a certain analogy with the different 
aspects under which a variety of visitors make their appearance at 
a hospitable house. There is the subject which presents itself 
formally, in full dress, and on grand occasions only. There is the 
subject which comes more readily, at shorter notice, and at more 
ordinary times and seasons. There is the subject which is in itself 
of no particular account, but which may sometimes be found useful, 
at the eleventh hour, to fill up a vacant place. Last, and most 
precious of all, there is the happy subject which comes unbidden 
to the pen, and which ensures its own loving reception almost as 
rare in its way as the home-friend who comes unbidden to the house, 
and brings his welcome with him, visit us as often as he may. 

The well-known name at the head of this article appears there 
as happily and as appropriately as the well-loved friend appears at 
the fireside. Foremost among the subjects which it is a happiness 
and not a duty to welcome, rank the Life and Labours of Douglas 
Jerrold. Under the guidance of Mr. Blanchard Jerrold (whose 
excellent Memoir of his father is now before us), we propose to 
trace the outline of that Life, and to indicate in some degree the 
nature of those Labours ; referring our readers to the book itself 
for all the details which cannot find a place here, and which assist 
in completing the interest of the biographical story. 

Some seventy years ago, there lived a poor country player named 
Samuel Jerrold. His principal claim to a prominent position 
among the strolling company to which he was attached consisted 
in the possession of a pair of shoes once belonging to the great 
Garrick himself. Samuel Jerrold always appeared on the stage in 



280 KEPEINTED PIECES. 

these invaluable "properties" — a man, surely, who deserves the 
regard of posterity, as the only actor of modern times who has 
shown himself capable of standing in Garrick's shoes. 

Samuel Jerrold was twice married — the second time to a wife 
so much his junior that he was older than his own mother-in-law. 
Partly, perhaps, in virtue of „ this last great advantage on the part 
of the husband, the marriage was a very happy one. The second 
Mrs. Samuel was a clever, good-tempered, notable woman; and 
helped her husband materially in his theatrical affairs, when he 
rose in time (and in Garrick's shoes) to be a manager of country 
theatres. Young Mrs. Samuel brought her husband a family — 
two girls to begin with, and, on the third of January, eighteen 
hundred and three, while she was staying in London, a boy, who 
was christened Douglas William, and who was destined, in after 
life, to make the name of the obscure country manager a house- 
hold word on the lips of English readers. 

In the year eighteen hundred and seven, Samuel Jerrold became 
the lessee of the Sheerness Theatre ; and little Douglas was there 
turned to professional account, as a stage-child. He appeared in 
The Stranger as one of the little cherubs of the frail and interest- 
ing Mrs. Haller; and he was "carried on" by Edmund Kean, as 
the child in Rolla. These early theatrical experiences (whatever 
influence they might have had, at a later time, in forming his in- 
stincts as a dramatist) do not appear to have at all inclined him 
towards his father's profession when he grew older. The world of 
ships and sailors amid which he lived at Sheerness seems to have 
formed his first tastes and influenced his first longings. As soon 
as he could speak for himself on the matter of his future prospects, 
he chose the life of a sailor ; and, at ten years old, he entered on 
board the guard ship, Namur, as a first-class volunteer. 

Up to this time the father had given the son as good an educa- 
tion as it lay within his means to command. Douglas had been 
noted as a studious boy at school; and he brought with him a 
taste for reading and for quiet pursuits when he entered on board 
the Namur. Beginning his apprenticeship to the sea as a Mid- 
shipman, in December, eighteen hundred and thirteen, he was not 
transferred from the guardship to active service until April, eigh- 
teen hundred and fifteen, when he was drafted oflf, with forty-six 
men, to his Majesty's gun-brig, Ernest. 

Those were stirring times. The fierce struggle of Waterloo was 
at hand; and Douglas's first cruise was across the Channel to 
Ostend, at the head of a fleet of transports carrying troops and 
stores to the battle-field. Singularly enough his last cruise con- 
nected him with the results of the great fight, as his first had 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 281 

connected him with the preparations for it. In the July of the 
Waterloo year, the Ernest brought her share of the wounded back 
to Sheerness. On the deck of that brig, Jerrold first stood face 
to face with the horror of war. In after life, when other pens 
were writing glibly enough of the glory of war, his pen traced the 
dark reverse of the picture, and set the terrible consequences of all 
victories, righteous as well as wicked, in their true light. 

The great peace was proclaimed, and the nations rested at last. 
In October, eighteen hundred and fifteen, the Ernest was "paid 
oflf." Jerrold stepped on shore, and never returned to the service. 
He was without interest ; and the peace virtually closed his pro- 
fessional prospects. To the last day of his life he had a genuinely 
English love for the sea and sailors ; and, short as his naval ex- 
perience had been, neither he nor his countrymen were altogether 
losers by it. If the Midshipman of the Ernest had risen to be an 
Admiral, what would have become then of the author of Black- 
Eyed Susan ? 

Douglas's prospects were far from cheering when he returned to 
his home on shore. The affairs of Samuel Jerrold (through no 
fault of his own) had fallen into sad confusion. In his old age, 
his vocation of manager sank from under him; his theatre was 
sold; and, at the end of the Waterloo year, he and his family 
found themselves compelled to leave Sheerness. On the first day 
of eighteen hundred and sixteen they sailed away in the Chatham 
boat to try their fortune in London. 

The first refuge of the Jerrolds was at Broad Court, Bow Street. 
Poor old Samuel was now past his work ; and the chief dependence 
of the ruined family rested on Douglas and his mother. Mrs. 
Samuel contrived to get some theatrical employment in London ; 
and Douglas, after beginning life as an officer in the navy, was 
apprenticed to a printer, in Northumberland Street, Strand. 

He accepted his new position with admirable cheerfulness and 
resolution ; honestly earning his money, and affectionately devoting 
it to the necessities of his parents. A delightful anecdote of him, 
at this time of his life, is told by his son. On one of the occasions 
when his mother and sister were absent in the country, the little 
domestic responsibility of comforting the poor worn-out old father 
with a good dinner rested on Douglas's shoulders. With the small 
proceeds of his work, he bought all the necessary materials for a 
good beefsteak pie — made the pie himself, succeeding brilliantly 
with the crust — himself took it to the bake-house — and himself 
brought it back, with one of Sir Walter Scott's novels, which the 
dinner left him just money enough to hire from a library, for the 
purpose of reading a story to his father in the evening, by way of 



282 REPRINTED PIECES. 

dessert. For our own parts we shall henceforth always rank that 
beefsteak pie as one among the many other works of Douglas Jer- 
rold which have established his claim to remembrance and to re- 
gard. The clue to the bright, affectionate nature of the man — 
sometimes lost by those who knew him imperfectly, in after life 
— could hardly be found in any pleasanter or better place, now 
that he is gone from among us, than on the poor dinner table in 
Broad Court. 

Although he was occupied for twelve hours out of the twenty- 
four at the printing-office, he contrived to steal time enough from the 
few idle intervals allowed for rest and meals, to store his mind with 
all the reading that lay within his reach. As early as at the age 
of fourteen, the literary faculty that was in him seems to have 
struggled to develop itself in short papers and scraps of verse. 
Only a year later, he made his first effort at dramatic composition, 
producing a little force, with a part in it for an old friend of the 
family, the late Mr. Wilkinson, the comedian. Although Samuel 
Jerrold was well remembered among many London actors as an 
honest country manager; and although Douglas could easily secure 
from his father's friends his admission to the theatre whenever he 
was able to go to it, he does not appear to have possessed interest 
enough to gain a reading for his piece when it was first sent in to 
the English Opera House. After three years had elapsed, however, 
Mr. Wilkinson contrived to get the lad's farce produced at Sadler's 
Wells, under the title of More Frightened than Hurt. It was not 
only successful on its first representation, but it also won the rare 
honour of being translated for the French stage. More than this, 
it was afterwards translated back again, by a dramatist who was 
ignorant of its original history, for the stage of the Olympic 
Theatre ; where it figured in the bills under the new title of Fight- 
ing hy Proxy, with Liston in the part of the hero. Such is the 
history of Douglas Jerrold's first contribution to the English drama. 
When it was produced on the boards of Sadler's Wells, its author's 
age was eighteen years. 

He had appeared in public, however, as an author before this 
time ; having composed some verses which were printed in a for- 
gotten periodical called " Arliss's Magazine." The loss of his first 
situation, through the bankruptcy of his master, obliged him to seek 
employment anew in the printing-office of one Mr. Bigg, who was 
also the editor of a newspaper called the "Sunday Monitor." In 
this journal appeared his first article — a critical paper on Der 
Freischutz. He had gone to the theatre with an order to see the 
opera ; and had been so struck by the super-natural drama and 
the wonderful music to which it was set, that he noted down his 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 283 

impressions of the performance, and afterwards dropped what he 
had written, anonymously, into the editor's box. The next morn- 
ing, his own article was handed to him to set up in type for the 
forthcoming number of the Sunday Monitor. After this first en- 
couragement, he began to use his pen frequently in the minor peri- 
odicals of the time ; still sticking to the printer's work, however, 
and still living at home with his family. The success of his little 
force at Sadler's Wells led to his writing three more pieces for 
that theatre. They all succeeded ; and the managers of some of 
the other minor theatres began to look after the new man. Just 
at this time, when his career as dramatist and journalist was be- 
ginning to open before him, his father died. After that loss, the 
next important event in his life was his marriage. In the year 
eighteen hundred and twenty-four, when he was twenty-one years 
of age, he married his "first love," Miss Mary Swann, the daughter 
of a gentleman who held an appointment in the Post Office. He 
and his bride settled, with his mother and sister and a kind old 
friend of his boyish days, in Holborn ; and here — devoting his 
days to the newspapers, and his evenings to the drama — the newly 
married man started as author by profession, and met the world 
and its cares bravely at the point of the pen. 

The struggle at starting was a hard one. His principal perma- 
nent source of income was a small weekly salary, paid to him as drama- 
tist to the establishment, by one Davidge, manager of the Coburg 
(now the Victoria) Theati'e. This man appears to have treated Jer- 
rold, whose dramas brought both money and reputation to his theatre, 
with an utter want of common consideration and common gratitude. 
He worked his poor author pitilessly ; and it is, on that account, 
highly satisfactory to know that he over-reached himself in the end, 
by quarrelling with his dramatist, at the very time when Jerrold 
had a theatrical fortune (so far as managers' interests were con- 
cerned) lying in his desk, in the shape of Blacl'-Eyed Susan. With 
that renowned play (the most popular of all nautical dramas) in 
his hand, Douglas left the Coburg to seek employment at the Sur- 
rey Theatre — then under the management of the drunken and 
dignified Mr. Elliston. This last tradesman in plays — who sub- 
sequently showed himself to be as meanly unfeeling as the other 
tradesman at the Coburg — bid rather higher for Jerrold's services, 
and estimated the sole monopoly of the fancy, invention and humour 
of a man who had already proved himself to be a popular, money- 
bringing dramatist, at the magnificent rate of five pounds a week. 
The bargain was struck ; and Jerrold's first play produced at the 
Surrey Theatre was Black-Eyed Susan. 

He had achieved many enviable dramatic successes before this 



284 REPRINTED PIECES. 

time. He had written domestic dramas — such as Fifteen Yem^s 
of a Drunkard's Life and Ambrose Gwinett, the popularity of 
which is still well remembered by play-goers of the old generation. 
But the reception of Black-Eyed Susan eclipsed all previous suc- 
cesses of his or of any other dramatist's in that line. Mr. T. P. 
Cooke, who, as the French say, "created" the part of William, 
not only found half London flocking into the Borough to see him, 
but was actually called upon, after acting in the play, as a first 
piece, at the Surrey Theatre, to drive off" in his sailor's dress, and 
act in it again on the same night, as the last piece, at Covent Gar- 
den Theatre. Its first " run " mounted to three hundred nights : 
it afterwards drew money into the empty treasury of Drury Lane : 
it remains, to this day, a " stock-piece " on which managers and 
actors know that they can depend ; and, strangest phenomenon of 
all, it is impossible to see the play now, without feeling that its 
great and well-deserved dramatic success has been obtained with 
the least possible amount of assistance from the subtleties and re- 
finements of dramatic art. The piece is indebted for its hold on 
the pubhc sympathy solely to the simple force, the irresistible 
directness, of its appeal to some of the strongest afi'ections in our 
nature. It has succeeded, and it will succeed, not because the 
dialogue is well or, as to some passages of it, even naturally Avritten ; 
not because the story is neatly told, for it is (especially in the first 
act) full of faults in construction ; but solely because the situations 
in which the characters are placed appeal to the hearts of every 
husband and every wife in the theatre. In this aspect of it, and 
in this only, the play is a study to any young writer ; for it shows 
on what amazingly simple foundations rest the main conditions of 
the longest, the surest, and the widest dramatic success. 

It is sad, it is almost humiliating, to be obliged to add, in refer- 
ence to the early history of Jerrold's first dramatic triumph, that 
his share of the gains which Black-Eyed Susan poured into the 
pockets of managers on both sides of the water was just seventy 
pounds. Mean-minded Mr. Elliston, whose theatre the play had 
raised from a state of something like bankruptcy to a condition of 
prosperity which, in the Surrey annals, has not since been paralleled, 
not only abstained from presenting Jerrold with the smallest frag- 
ment of anything in the shape of a token of gratitude, but actually 
had the pitiless insolence to say to him, after Black-Eyed Susan 
had run its three hundred nights, " My dear boy, why don't you 
get your friends to present you with a bit of plate 1 " 

The extraordinary success of Black-Eyed Susan opened the doors 
of the great theatres to Jerrold, as a matter of course. He made 
admirable use of the chances in his favour which he had so well 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 285 

deserved, and for which he had waited so long. At the Adelphi, 
at Drury Lane, and the Haymarket, drama after drama flowed in 
quick succession from his pen. The DeviVs Ducat, The Bride of 
Ludgate, The Rent Day, Nell Gwynne, the Housekeeper — this 
last, the best of his plays in point of construction — date, with 
many other dramatic works, from the period of his life now under 
review. The one slight check to his career of prosperity occurred 
in eighteen hundred and thirty-six, when he and his brother-in-law 
took the Strand Theatre and when Jerrold acted a character in one 
of his own plays. Neither the theatrical speculation nor the theat- 
rical appearance proved to be successful ; and he wisely abandoned, 
from that time, all professional connection with the stage, except 
in his old and ever welcome character of dramatist. In the other 
branches of his art — to which he devoted himself, at this turning- 
point of his career, as faithfully as he "devoted himself to the theat- 
rical branch — -his progress was not less remarkable. As journalist 
and essayist, he rose steadily, towards the distinguished place which 
was his due among the writers of his time. This middle term of 
his literary exertions produced, among other noticeable results, the 
series of social studies called " Men of Character," originally begun 
in Blackwood's Magazine, and since published among his collected 
works. 

He had now advanced, in a social as well as in a literary point 
of view, beyond that period in the lives of self-made men which 
may be termed the adventurous period. Whatever difficulties and 
anxieties henceforth oppressed him were caused by the trials and 
troubles which, more or less, beset the exceptional lives of all men 
of letters. The struggle for a hearing, the fight for a fair field in 
which to show himself, had now been bravely and creditably 
accomplished ; and all that remains to be related of the life of 
Douglas Jerrold is best told in the history of his works. 

Taking his peculiar literary gifts into consideration, the first 
great opportunity of his life, as a periodical writer, was offered to 
him, unquestionably, by the starting of Punch. The brilliant im- 
promptu faculty which gave him a place apart, as thinker, writer, 
and talker, among the remarkable men of his time, was exactly 
the faculty which such a journal as Punch was calculated to de- 
velop to the utmost. The day on which Jerrold was secured as 
a contributor would have been a fortunate day for tiiat periodical, 
if he had written nothing in it but the far-famed Caudle Lectures, 
and the delightful Story of a Feather. But the service that he 
rendered to Punch must by no means be associated only with the 
more elaborate contributions to its pages which are publicly con- 
nected with his name, His wit often flashed out at its brightest, 



286 REPRINTED PIECES. 

his sarcasm often cut with its keenest edge, in those well-timed 
paragraphs and short articles which hit the passing event of the 
day, and which, so far as their temporary purpose with the public 
is concerned, are all-important ingredients in the success of such a 
periodical as Punch. A contributor who can strike out new ideas 
from the original resources of his own mind, is one man, and a con- 
tributor who can be depended on for the small work-a-day emer- 
gencies which are felt one week and forgotten the next, is generally 
another. Jerrold united these two characters in himself; and the 
value of him to Punch, on that account only, can never be too 
highly estimated. 

At this period of his life, the fertility of his mental resources 
showed itself most conspicuously. While he was working for 
Punch he was also editing and largely contributing to the Illumi- 
nated Magazine. In this publication appeared, among a host of 
shorter papers, the series called "The Chronicles of Clovernook," 
which he himself always considered to be one of his happiest ef- 
forts, and which does indeed contain, in detached passages, some 
of the best things that ever fell from his pen. On the cessation of 
The Illuminated Magazine, he started The Shilling Magazine, and 
contributed to it his well-known novel, Saint Giles and Saint 
James. These accumulated literary occupations and responsibili- 
ties would have been enough for most men ; but Jerrold's inex- 
haustible energy and variety carried him on through more work 
still. Theatrical audiences now found their old favourite address- 
ing them again, and occupying new ground as a writer of five-act 
and three-act comedies. Buhhles of the Day, Time Woy^hs Won- 
ders, The Catspaw, Retired from Business, Sai7it Cupid, were all 
produced, with other plays, after the period when he became a reg- 
ular writer in Punch. Judged from the literary point of view, 
these comedies were all original and striking contributions to the 
library of the stage. From the dramatic point of view, however, 
it must not be concealed that they were less satisfactory : and that 
some of them were scarcely so successful with audiences as their 
author's earlier and humbler efforts. The one solid critical rea- 
son which it is possible to assign for this implies in itself a compli- 
ment which could be paid to no other dramatist of modern times. 
The perpetual glitter of Jerrold's wit seems to have blinded him 
to some of the more sober requirements of the dramatic art. 
When Charles Kemble said, and said truly, that there was wit 
enough for three comedies in Buhhles of the Day, he implied that 
this brilliant overflow left little or no room for the indispensable 
resources of story and situation to display themselves fairly on the 
stage. The comedies themselves, examined with reference to their 



DOUGLAS JEREOLD. 287 

success in representation, as well as to their intrinsic merits, help 
to support this vie^Y. Time Works Wonders was the most pros- 
perous of all, and it is that comedy precisely which has the most 
story and the most situation in it. The idea and the management 
of the charming love-tale out of which the events of this play 
spring, show what Jerrold might have achieved in the construction 
of other plots, if his own superabundant wit had not dazzled him 
and led him astray. As it is, the readers of these comedies, who 
can appreciate the rich fancy, the delicate subtleties of thought, 
the masterly terseness of expression, and the exquisite play and 
sparkle of wit scattered over every page, may rest assured that 
they rather gain than lose — especially in the present condition 
of theatrical companies — by not seeing the last dramatic works 
of Douglas Jerrold represented on the stage. 

The next, and, sad to say, the final achievement of his life, 
connected him most honourably and profitably with the newspaper 
press. Many of our readers will remember the starting of Douglas 
Jerrold's Weekly Newspaper — its great temporary success — and 
then its sudden decline, through defects in management, to which 
it is not now necessary to refer at length. The signal ability with 
which the editorial articles in the paper were written, the remark- 
able aptitude which they displayed in striking straight at the sym- 
pathies of large masses of readers, did not escape the notice of men 
who were well fitted to judge of the more solid qualifications 
which go to the production of a popular journalist. In the spring 
of the year eighteen hundred and fifty-two, the proprietor of 
Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper proposed the editorship to Jerrold, on 
terms of such wise liberality as to ensure the ready acceptance of 
his offer. From the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two, to 
the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-seven — the last he was 
ever to see — Jerrold conducted the paper with such extraordinary 
success as is rare in the history of journalism. Under his super- 
vision, and with the regular assistance of his pen, Lloyd's News- 
paper rose, by thousands and thousands a week, to the great 
circulation which it now enjoys. Of the many successful labours 
of Jerrold's life none had been so substantially prosperous as the 
labour that was destined to close it. 

His health had shown signs of breaking, and his heart was 
known to be affected, for some little time before his last brief ill- 
ness : but the unconquerable energy and spirit of the man upheld 
him through all bodily trials, until the first day of June, eighteen 
hundred and fifty-seven. Even his medical attendant did not 
abandon all hope when his strength first gave way. But he sank 
rapidly — so rapidly, that in one short week the struggle was over. 



288 REPRINTED PIECES. 

On the eighth day of June, surrounded by his family and his 
friends, preserving all his faculties to the last, passing away calmly, 
resignedly, affectionately, Douglas Jerrold closed his eyes on the 
world, which it had been the long and noble purpose of his life to 
inform and to improve. 

It is too early yet to attempt any estimate of the place which 
his writings will ultimately occupy in English literature. So long 
as honesty, energy, and variety are held to be the prominent qual- 
ities which should distinguish a genuine writer, there can be no 
doubt of the vitality of Douglas Jerrold's reputation. The one 
objection urged against the works, which, feeble and ignorant 
though it was, often went to the heart of the writer, was the 
objection of bitterness. Calling to mind many of the passages in 
his books in which this bitterness most sharply appears, and seeing 
plainly in those passages what the cause was that provoked it, we 
venture to speak out our own opinion boldly, and to acknowledge 
at once, that we admire this so-called bitterness as one of the great 
and valuable qualities of Douglas Jerrold's writings ; because we 
can see for ourselves that it springs from the uncompromising 
earnestness and honesty of the author. In an age when it is 
becoming unfashionable to have a positive opinion about anything ; 
when the detestable comic element scatters its profanation with im- 
punity on all beautiful and all serious things ; when much, far too 
much, of the current literature of the day vibrates contemptibly 
between unbelieving banter and unblushing clap-trap, that element 
of bitterness in Jerrold's writings — which never stands alone in 
them ; which is never disassociated from the kind word that goes 
before, or the generous thought that comes after it — is in our 
opinion a right wholesome element, breathing that manful admira- 
tion of truth, and that manful hatred of falsehood, which is the 
chiefest and brightest jewel in the crown of any writer, living or 
dead. 

This same cry of bitterness, which assailed him in his literary 
character, assailed him in his social character also. Absurd as the 
bare idea of bitterness must appear in connection with such a 
nature as his, to those who really knew him, the reason why 
strangers so often and so ridiculously misunderstood him, is not 
difficult to discover. That marvellous brightness and quickness of 
perception which has distinguished him far and wide as the sayer 
of some of the wittiest, and often some of the wisest things also, 
in the English language, expressed itself almost with the sudden- 
ness of lightning. This absence of all appearance of artifice or 
preparation, this flash and readiness which made the great charm 
of his wit, rendered him, at the same time, quite incapable of sup- 



LEIGH HUNT. 289 

pressing a good thing from prudential considerations. It sparkled 
off his tongue before he was aware of it. It was always a bright 
surprise to himself; and it never occurred to him that it could be 
anything but a bright surprise to others. All his so-called bitter 
things were said with a burst of hearty, schoolboy laughter, which 
showed how far he was himself from attaching a serious importance 
to them. Strangers apparently failed to draw this inference, plain 
as it was ; and often mistook him accordingly. If they had seen 
him in the society of children ; if they had surprised him in the 
house of any one of his literary brethren who was in difficulty and 
distress ; if they had met him by the bedside of a sick friend, how 
simply and how irresistibly the gentle, generous, affectionate nature 
of the man would then have disclosed itself to the most careless 
chance acquaintance who ever misunderstood him ! Very few men 
have won the loving regard of so many friends so rapidly, and have 
kept that regard so enduringly to the last day of their lives, as 
Douglas Jerrold. 

In closing this brief sketch of the career of a dear and an hon- 
oured fellow-labourer, we must not forget to say a farewell word of 
sincere congratulation to Mr. Blanchard Jerrold, on the admirable 
spirit in which he has given his father's Life to the world. The 
book is most frankly, most affectionately, and, as to its closing 
passages, most touchingly written. It is good as the record of a 
literary life ; it is still better as a tribute to the memory of a father, 
offered by the love and duty of a son. 



All the Year Round, Vol. II., Dec. 24, 1859. 

* LEIGH HUNT. 

"The sense of beauty and gentleness, of moral beauty and 
faithful gentleness, grew upon him as the clear evening closed in. 
When he went to visit his relative at Putney, he still carried with 
him his work, and the books he more immediately wanted. Al- 
tliough his bodily powers had been giving way, his most conspicu- 
ous qualities, his memory for books and his affection, remained, and 
when his hair was white, when his ample chest had grown slender, 
when the very proportion of his height had visibly lessened, his 
step was still ready, and his dark eyes brightened at every happy 
expression, and at every thought of kindness. His death was 
simply exhaustion : he broke off his work to lie down and repose. 
So gentle was the final approach, that he scarcely recognised it till 



290 REPRINTED PIECES. 

the very last, and then it came without terrors. His physical suf- 
fering had not been severe ; at the latest hour he said that his only 
uneasiness was failing breath. And that failing breath was used to 
express his sense of the inexhaustible kindness he had received from 
the family who had been so unexpectedly made his nurses, — to draw 
from one of his sons, by minute, eager, and searching questions, all 
that he could learn about the latest vicissitudes and growing hopes 
of Italy — to ask the friends and children around him for news of 
those whom he loved, — and to send love and messages to the absent 
who loved him." 

Thus, with a manly simplicity and filial affection, writes the eldest 
son of Leigh Hunt in recording his father's death. These are the 
closing words of a new edition of The Autobiography of Leigh 
Hunt, published by Messrs. Smith and Elder, of Cornhill, revised 
by that son, and enriched with an introductory chapter of remarkable 
beauty and tenderness. The son's first presentation of his father to 
the reader, " rather tall, straight as an arrow, looking slenderer than 
he really was ; his hair black and shining, and slightly inclined to 
wave ; his head high, his forehead straight and white, his eyes 
black and sparkling, his general complexion dark; in his whole 
carriage and manner an extraordinary degree of life," completes the 
picture. It is the picture of the flourishing and fading away of 
man that is born of a woman and hath but a short time to live. 

In his presentation of his father's moral nature and intellectual 
qualities, Mr. Hunt is no less faithful and no less touching. Those 
who knew Leigh Hunt, will see the bright face and hear the musi- 
cal voice again, when he is recalled to them in this passage : " Even 
at seasons of the greatest depression in his fortunes, he always 
attracted many visitors, but still not so much for any repute that 
attended him as for his personal qualities. Few men were more 
attractive in society, whether in a large company or over the fire- 
side. His manners were peculiarly animated ; his conversation, 
varied, ranging over a great field of subjects, was moved and called 
forth by the response of his companion, be that companion philoso- 
pher or student, sage or boy, man or w^oman; and he was equally 
ready for the most lively topics or for the gravest reflections — his 
expression easily adapting itself to the tone of his companion's mind. 
With much freedom of manners, he combined a spontaneous courtesy 
that never failed, and a considerateness derived from a ceaseless 
kindness of heart that invariably fascinated even strangers." Or in 
this : " His animation, his sympathy with what was gay and pleas- 
urable ; his avowed doctrine of cultivating cheerfulness, were mani- 
fest on the surface, and could be appreciated by those who knew 
him in society, most probably even exaggerated as salient traits, on 



LEIGH HUNT. 291 

which he himself insisted with a sort of gay and ostentatious wil- 
fulness.^^ 

The last words describe one of the most captivating peculiarities 
of a most original and engaging man, better than any other words 
could. The reader is besought to observe them, for a reason that 
shall presently be given. Lastly : " The anxiety to recognise the 
right of others, the tendency to ' refine,' which was noted by an early 
school companion, and the propensity to elaborate every thought, 
made him, along with the direct argument by which he sustained 
his own conviction, recognise and almost admit all that might be 
said on the opposite side." For these reasons, and for others sug- 
gested with equal felicity, and with equal fidelity, the son writes of 
the father, " It is most desirable that his qualities should be known 
as they were ; for such deficiencies as he had are the honest explana- 
tion of his mistakes ; while, as the reader may see from his writing 
and his conduct, they are not, as the faults of which he was ac- 
cused would be, incompatible with the noblest faculties both of 
head and heart. To know Leigh Hunt as he was, was to hold him 
in reverence and love." 

These quotations are made here, with a special object. It is not, 
that the personal testimony of one who knew Leigh Hunt well, may 
be borne to their truthfulness. It is not, that it may be recorded 
in these pages, as in his son's introductory chapter, that his life 
was of the most amiable and domestic kind, that his wants were 
few, that his way of life was frugal, that he was a man of small 
expenses, no ostentations, a diligent labourer, and a secluded man 
of letters. It is not, that the inconsiderate and forgetful may be 
reminded of his wrongs and suflferings in the days of the Regency, 
and of the national disgrace of his imprisonment. It is not, that 
their forbearance may be entreated for his grave, in right of his 
graceful fancy or his political labours and endurances, though 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 

New men, that in the flying of a wheel 

Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 

Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well. 

It is, that a duty may be done in the most direct way possible. 
An act of plain, clear duty. 

Four or five years ago, the writer of these lines was much pained 
by accidentally encountering a printed statement, " that Mr. Leigh 
Hunt was the original of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House." The 
writer of these lines is the author of that book. The statement 
came from America. It is no disrespect to that country, in which 
the writer has, perhaps, as many friends and as true an interest as 



292 REPKINTED PIECES. 

any man that lives, good-humouredly to state the fact, that he 
has, now and then, been the subject of paragraphs in Transatlantic 
newspapers, more surprisingly destitute of all foundations in truth 
than the wildest delusions of the wildest lunatics. For reasons 
born of this experience, he let the thing go by. 

But, since Mr. Leigh Hunt's death, the statement has been re- 
vived in England, The delicacy and generosity evinced in its 
revival, are for the rather late consideration of its revivers. The 
fact is this : 

Exactly those graces and charms of manner which are remem- 
bered in the words we have quoted, were remembered by the 
author of the work of fiction in question, when he drew the char- 
acter in question. Above all other things, that "sort of gay and 
ostentatious wilfulness " in the humouring of a subject, which had 
many a time delighted him, and impressed him as being unspeak- 
ably whimsical and attractive, was the airy quality he wanted for 
the man he invented. Partly for this reason, and partly (he has 
since often grieved to think) for the pleasure it afforded him to 
find that delightful manner reproducing itself under his hand, he 
yielded to the temptation of too often making the character sj'teah 
like his old friend. He no more thought, God forgive him ! that 
the admired original would ever be charged with the imaginary 
vices of the fictitious creature, than he has himself ever thought of 
charging the blood of Desdemona and Othello on the innocent 
Academy model who sat for lago's leg in the picture. Even as to 
the mere occasional manner, he meant to be so cautious and con- 
scientious, that he privately referred the proof sheets of the first 
number of that book to two intimate literary friends of Leigh Hunt 
(both still living), and altered the whole of that part of the text on 
their discovering too strong a resemblance to his "way." 

He cannot see the son lay this wreath on the father's tomb, and 
leave him to the possibility of ever thinking that the present words 
might have righted the father's memory and were left unwritten. 
He cannot know that his own son may have to explain his father 
when folly or malice can wound his heart no more, and leave this 
task undone. 



THE LATE MR. STANFIELD. 293 

All the Year Round, Vol. XVII., June 1, 1867. 
*THE LATE MR. STANFIELD. 

Every Artist, be he writer, painter, musician, or actor, must 
bear his private sorrows as he best can, and must separate them 
from the exercise of his pubHc pursuit. But it sometimes happens, 
in compensation, that his private loss of a dear friend represents a 
loss on the part of the whole community. Then he may, without 
obtrusion of his individuality, step forth to lay his little wreath upon 
that dear friend's grave. 

On Saturday, the eighteenth of this present month, Clarkson 
Stanfield died. On the afternoon of that day, England lost the 
great .marine painter of whom she will be boastful ages hence ; the 
National Historian of her specialty the Sea ; the man famous in all 
countries for his marvellous rendering of the waves that break upon 
her shores, of her ships and seamen, of her coasts and skies, of her 
storms and sunshine, of the many marvels of the deep. He who 
holds the oceans in the hollow of His hand, had given, associated 
with them, wonderful gifts into his keeping; he had used them 
well through three score and fourteen years ; and, on the afternoon 
of that spring day, relinquished them for ever. 

It is superfluous to record that the painter of " The Battle of 
Trafalgar," of "The Victory being towed into Gibraltar with the 
Body of Nelson on Board," of "The Morning after the Wreck," of 
" The Abandoned," of fifty more such works, died in his seventy- 
fourth year, "Mr." Stanfield. — He was an Englishman. 

Those grand pictures will proclaim his powers while paint and 
canvas last. But the writer of these words had been his friend for 
thirty years ; and when, a short week or two before his death, he 
laid that once so skilful hand upon the writer's breast and told him 
they would meet again, " but not here," the thoughts of the latter 
turned, for the time, so little to his noble genius, and so much to his 
noble nature. 

He was the soul of frankness, generosity, and simplicity. The 
most genial, the most affectionate, the most loving, and the most 
lovable of men. Success had never for an instant spoiled him. His 
interest in the Theatre as an Institution — the best picturesqueness 
of which may be said to be wholly due to him — was faithful to 
the last. His belief in a Play, his delight in one, the ease with 
which it moved him to tears or to laughter, were most remarkable 
evidences of the heart he must have put into his old theatrical work, 
and of the thorough purpose and sincerity with which it must have 



294 REPRINTED PIECES. 

been done. The writer was very intimately associated with him in 
some amateur plays; and day after day, and night after night, 
there were the same unquenchable freshness, enthusiasm, and im- 
pressibility in him, though broken in health, even then. 

No Artist can ever have stood by his art with a quieter dignity 
than he always did. Nothing would have induced him to lay it at 
the feet of any human creature. To fawn, or to toady, or to do 
undeserved homage to any one, was an absolute impossibility with 
him. And yet his character was so nicely balanced that he was 
the last man in the world to be suspected of self-assertion, and his 
modesty was one of his most special qualities. 

He was a charitable, religious, gentle, truly good man. A genu- 
ine man, incapable of pretence or of concealment. He had been a 
sailor once ; and all the best characteristics that are popularly 
attributed to sailors, being his, and being in him refined by the in- 
fluences of his Art, formed a whole not likely to be often seen. 
There is no smile that the writer can recall, like his ; no manner so 
naturally confiding and so cheerfully engaging. When the writer 
saw him for the last time on earth, the smile and the manner shone 
out once through the weakness, still : the bright unchanging Soul 
within the altered face and form. 

No man was ever held in higher respect by his friends, and yet his 
intimate friends invariably addressed him and spoke of him by a pet 
name. It may need, perhaps, the writer's memory and associations 
to find in this a touching expression of his winning character, his 
playful smile, and pleasant ways. "You know Mrs. Inchbald's 
story, Nature and Art ? " wrote Thomas Hood, once, in a letter : 
" What a fine Edition of Nature and Art is Stanfield ! " 

Gone ! And many and many a dear old day gone with him. 
But their memories remain. And his memory will not soon fade 
out, for he has set his mark upon the restless waters, and his fame 
will long be sounded in the roar of the sea. 



All the Year Bound, New Series, Vol. I., No. 19, April 10, 1869. 

* ROBERT KEELEY. 

" There is something strange as well as sad in seeing actors — 
your pleasant fellows particularly — subjected to and suffering the 
common lot ; their fortunes, their casualties, their deaths, seem to 
belong to the scene ; their actions to be amenable to poetic justice 
only. We can hardly connect them with more awful responsibilities. " 



ROBERT KEELEY. 295 

So wrote the peerless English essayist, Charles Lamb, of one of 
the most original and quaint, as stage records tell us, of English 
low comedians, Dodd. The feeling expressed in those lines comes 
home to us in connection with the admirable actor whom we have 
lately lost, with a touching appropriateness. And the appropriate- 
ness is increased by the marked resemblance that must have existed 
between the peculiarities of Dodd and the peculiarities of Keeley. 
" In expressing slowness of apprehension" (says Charles Lamb)," this 
actor surpassed all others. You could see the first dawn of an idea 
stealing slowly over his countenance, climbing up by little and little, 
with a painful process, till it cleared up at last to the fulness of a twi- 
light conception — its highest meridian. He seemed to keep back 
his intellect, as some have had the power to retard their pulsation. 
The balloon takes less time in filling, than it took to cover the ex- 
pression of his broad moony face, over all its quarters, with expres- 
sion. A glimmer of understanding would appear in a corner of his 
eye, and, for lack of fuel, go out again. A part of his forehead 
would catch a little intelligence, and be a long time in communicat- 
ing it to the remainder." 

There is a world of imaginativeness, of course, in this charming 
piece of descriptive writing. Dodd himself would, perhaps, have 
been somewhat astonished to hear that he could convey all this 
with a look, and that his countenance was as full of meaning as 
Lord Burleigh's nod. But, due allowance made for Lamb's style, 
we detect in this passage a piece of thoughtful and appreciative 
criticism, so vivid, that to those to whom Eha's essays are familiar 
(as they should be to all lovers of pure English), the fortunate 
actor whom he commemorates seems a living reality. To see Keeley 
act, especially in the part of Sir Andrew Aguecheek — it was to 
Dodd's performance of that character that Charles Lamb in his 
essay specially alluded — was to create, in fancy, an irresistible as- 
sociation with this criticism, and to feel that what was written of 
Dodd might have been written of the actor of our time. Who does 
not confess how infinitely more telling wit is, when the speaker's 
face seems all unconscious of the humour of his words 1 There is 
an infection of pleasantness, no doubt, in the man who laughs 
heartily at his own fun ; but he always gives us an impression of 
being like the child who writes under the efforts of his early art, 
" This is a horse; " " This is a dog," in order that there may be no 
mistake about them. " This is a joke — laugh at it." The grave 
humorist, who is a perpetual puzzle — leaving us never able to 
make out whether he is in fun or earnest — may have less universal 
power to please ; but over those whom he does please, his power is 
much greater. The quietness and subtlety of Keeley might have 



296 KEPRINTED PIECES. 

prevented him from being such a favourite as he was, with the 
many, but for the personal peculiarities which, in his case, supplied 
the breadth of effect that was absent from his delicate acting. The 
quaint figure in its diminutive rotundity, and the "expansion of 
the broad moony face," were irresistible in their suggestiveness of 
fun, even when the actor was gravest. 

Dodd's face, it is easy to gather from Elia's description, must 
have been a triumph of gravity. Indeed, we are told, in the same 
essay, that he wore, in private life, a countenance " full of thought 
and carefulness." Lamb meets Dodd, for some months retired from 
the stage, strolling in the Temple-gardens, and judges him, " from 
his grave air and deportment, to be one of the old Benchers of the 
Inn." On closer inspection, he detects his mistake. " Was this the 
face," he says — "manly, sober, intelligent — which I had so often 
despised, made mocks at, made merry with 1 The remembrance of 
the freedoms which I had taken with it came upon me with a 
reproach of insult. I could have asked it pardon. I thought it 
looked upon me with a sense of injury." This gravity of face and 
bearing which distinguished Dodd among the "pleasant fellows" 
of his time was the inheritance of Keeley, just as the infectious 
spirits and sprightliness of Bannister were revived in Harley. 

Low Comedy is no limited sphere ; it ranges over many and vari- 
ous degrees of art and acting, from the comedy of Touchstone and 
Dogberry, to the broad humour or no-humour of modern farce. 
Through all these various degrees, Keeley was equally admirable. 
Harley was an excellent artist in his way ; but he was always full 
of his own humour, and showed it, as much as to say, " See how 
funny I am ! " His audiences were willing enough to admit that 
he was, and indeed who could help it 1 but Keeley's was the truer 
art. In their respective performances of Dogberry, the difference 
was remarkable. The blunders of the old constable fell from Harley's 
lips as if he felt their absurdity, and enjoyed it ; from Keeley's, 
with the most immovable and pompous stolidity, as from one who 
believed that the whole weight of Messina was on his shoulders, 
and that he was well worthy to bear it, and well able to bear it. 
If anybody had told the one Dogberry that he was a funny fellow, 
tempted thereto by the merry twinkle in his eye, he would have 
been treated to a glass of liquor at the nearest wine-shop ; if he had 
so far forgotten himself as to offer such an insult to the dignity of the 
other, he would have been incontinently "moved on," or compre- 
hended as a vagrom man of the most dangerous sort. No doubt in 
some characters, Harley's face and style, expressing mirthfulness in 
activity, gave him an advantage; as in Lancelot Gobbo, who is 
eminently a " wag," or believes himself one, and of whom it may be 



ROBERT KEELEY. 297 

true that the total want of point betrayed by many of his utterances 
was intentional — a satirical comment on the funny man who, 
because he is very amusing sometimes, "will always be flouting," 
and often fails in being anything but silly. But the majority of 
Shakespeare's "clowns" are unconscious or saddened humorists; 
and their jokes are far more in keeping with the grave face than 
the gay. Sometimes we meet with two of them placed side by side 
in sharp contrast ; and that contrast can never have been better 
realised than by Keeley and Harley in the same play; as when the 
former played Sir Andrew to the Clown of the latter, in that very 
comedy of Twelfth Night, about which Charles Lamb gossips so 
delightfully. The contrast was even more effectively shown in 
Sheridan's Rivals, when Harley was the Acres, and Keeley the 
David. His more ambitious successors of the present day would 
scarcely submit to the degradation of playing David, to the Acres 
of a fellow-comedian of even equal standing in the salary-list of 
their theatre, however much nature may have fitted them for the 
one part and unfitted them for the other. Keeley knew better ; 
and what a delicious David he was ! Though forced by the false, 
though most attractive art which inspired that school of comedy, 
to talk in a succession of epigrams, as rounded and brilliant as the 
wittiest fashionable of them all, Keeley made David a miracle of 
stolid rusticity : a man of one idea, very much in earnest, both in 
his disgust with his master's follies and in his anxiety for him — 
which in Keeley 's hands acquired a touch of pathos from the devo- 
tion of the man. 

For Keeley was a master of pathos in his way, and many of our 
most delightful memories of him are connected with characters into 
which, by a few words or a little touch, he threw a certain homely 
tenderness quite his own. He never strained that chord too far, but 
struck it, as it were, in passing, relying upon delicate ears to catch 
the sound as it fell. By the general public, perhaps, this power 
of his was not as fully recognised as it might have been. Poor 
Robson could make his audience laugh and cry alternately, at his 
will ; and that he could do so was due to what was really an artis- 
tic defect in his acting. He was an actor of genius ; but of subt- 
lety he had little or none. He did not hint himself to his audi- 
ence ; he threw himself broadly at them ; and he could bound 
at once, without preparation or gradation, from pathos to fun. 
Not so Keeley ; subtle his acting was, in the highest degree ; and 
his light and shade were most delicately and beautifully blended. 
He must have suffered sometimes, from the misplaced laughter of 
gods and groundlings (stalls not always excepted), at moments 
when his own eyes were filled with tears. For he was too sensi- 



298 REPRINTED PIECES. 

tive an artist not to feel, when his part gave scope for feeling. 
All audiences, however, contain some delicate perception; and 
it is not only by critics and constant playgoers, that Keeley is 
remembered as among the most touching, as well as the drollest, 
of actors. 

Of the personal regard of the public, he had an extraordinary 
share. One great difference between French and English audiences 
is, that the former have the highest feeling for the art, the latter for 
the artist. The noisy " receptions " which a favourite actor obtains 
with us, whenever he appears on the stage, are sometimes rather 
excessive in their demonstration ; but they are very infectious, 
withal, in their enthusiasm, and are doubtless most inspiriting to 
the performer. At a French theatre, an actor, however established 
his reputation and great his poj^ularity, often has no " reception " ; 
the tribute is confined to special occasions, as when he appears 
in some part which he has "created." It is the part, as it were, 
that is applauded in advance, and not the artist. There is some- 
thing pleasant in the personal aftection of a British audience, who 
make no such nice distinctions. Of that personal regard which 
unites us with our theatrical favourites, Keeley had a lion's share, 
and it followed him in his retirement so faithfully, that when the 
town heard of his death the other day, it regretted him as much as 
if he had left the world and the stage together. 

In one sense, indeed, he did so : for though it was to all intents 
and purposes certain for some time past that he would never act 
again, he took no formal farewell of the theatre — a device, which 
is painful when it is real, as too rude and material a severing of the 
link between actor and public ; but which of late years has been 
too often a fiction — a prelude to a succession of " last appearances " 
which provoke laughter and extinguish regret. We have no draw- 
backs of that nature on our recollections of Keeley ; and we have 
still the consolation of hoping that his other half, the partner of 
his name and popularity — so closely united with him that we can 
never think of the one without the other — may not be entirely 
lost to the stage. We saw Keeley act on the occasion which 
proved to be his last appearance, when he played his old part of 
Dolly Spanker : one of the most finished figures in his portrait 
gallery. The little trot across the stage — the " Here I am. Gay," 
— the grotesque devotion and not unmanly weakness of the doting 
husband — made up a picture whose colours time had not in the 
least blurred or faded when he played for the last time. The stage 
was as elastic under his feet as it ever was in his best days ; and 
he never allowed us to feel that he had outstayed his time. Ah ! 
The laudatores temporis acti have reason on their side when they 



ROBERT KEELEY. 299 

talk of the theatrical companies of old days, if there were many 
like him ! 

We do not profess in this little paper to attempt anything like 
an exhaustive criticism on Keeley's acting, or, indeed, anything 
that can properly be called criticism. Our purpose does not extend 
beyond a few words of admiring remembrance and regret : a mo- 
mentary lingering on lost intellectual delights. We have men- 
tioned his Dogberry. As we write, we hear again the very 
inflections of his voice, and see again the wonderful expression of 
his face, at the supreme moment when he was called an Ass ! No 
other catastrophe on earth, or in the waters under it, could have 
aroused in living man such an amazing exposition of stupendous 
astonishment, indignation, and incredulity, as that insult wrung 
from Dogberry as Keeley drew him. But his Verges was even 
finer. By the force of his profound belief in Dogberry, one may 
say that he absorbed that Jackass into himself, sublimated and 
enhanced the drollery of the character, and made it all his own. 
The more preposterous Dogberry, the more steeped and lost in 
admiration he. When Dogberry was most ridiculous Verges wan- 
dered away through the broadest realms of speculation, how the 
Heavens ever came to make a man so wondrous wise. It was a 
true triumph of Art. Considered with a reference to the very few 
words set down for Verges, it was certainly the most finished and 
thoughtful piece of suggestive comic acting that one can easily 
imagine possible. And it culminated when his asinine chief patted 
him on the head, and he first bent under the honour, and then 
became the taller for it, gazing into his patron's face with an 
expression of fatuous contentment perfectly marvellous. 

In the melodrama of the Sergeant's Wife, where he and Mrs. 
Keeley played two innocent fellow-servants in a murdering house- 
hold, most delightfully, his terrors were of the very finest order of 
acting. We can see him now, when the principal murderer, his 
master, patted him on the head, and praised him for a good lad, 
sinking and sinking under the blood-stained hand until the hand 
stopped, finding nothing to touch. In the Loan of a Lover, his 
Peter Spyk had no approach to a parallel that ever we have seen, 
on the English, French, or Italian stage. Its immovable stolidity, 
and apparent insensibility to everything but a big pipe, until he 
made the tender discovery that he loved the little woman who had 
grown up about him from a child — and its pathos when that 
truth burst upon him concurrently with the information that she 
was going to be married to some one else — were simply beyond 
praise. For the richest humour, his reading of a letter in Betsy 
Baker may be quoted : or his extraordinary devices for getting out 



300 REPRINTED PIECES. 

of the room, in Your Life's in Danger^ where he had to pass a man 
at breakfast who he thought might stop him by the way. Fore- 
most among the pleasantest laughing faces we have ever seen at 
a Theatre, is our recollection of the Queen's face and its natural 
unrestrained abandonment to the humour of the scene, when, in 
A Thumping Legacy — dX Drury Lane in Mr. Macready's time 
years ago — Keeley received the intelligence that he had come to 
Corsica not so much to inherit a property as to inherit a Vendetta, 
and, in supreme vexation of spirit, suddenly and surprisingly hit 
out at his informant after the British manner. There was once 
an unsuccessful piece at the Lyceum, founded on a charming tale 
by Washington Irving. We do not recall a single point in 
Keeley's part except that he had seen a ghost before the curtain 
rose. That he had indubitably seen it, and that he went about 
ever afterwards expecting to see it again, the audience knew as 
well as he did from the moment of his first entrance. 

We are not thankful enough to great actors for the relief they 
give us, and the good they do us. These are but a few untwined 
Forget-me-Nots scattered on a great actor's grave. In private, he 
had the heart of a child, and the integrity of the noblest man. 



All the Year Round, No. 3i, New Series, July '2A, 1869. 
LANDOR'S LIFE. 

Prefixed to the second volume of Mr. Forster's admirable 
biography of Walter Savage Landor^ is an engraving from a por- 
trait of that remarkable man when seventy-seven years of age, by 
Boxall. The writer of these lines can testify that the original 
picture is a singularly good likeness, the result of close and subtle 
observation on the part of the painter ; but, for this very reason, 
the engraving gives a most inadequate idea of the merit of the pict- 
ure, and the character of the man. 

From the engraving, the arms and hands are omitted. In the 
picture, they are, as they were in nature, indispensable to a correct 
reading of the vigorous face. The arms were very peculiar. They 
were rather short, and were curiously restrained and checked 
in their action, at the elbows ; in the action of the hands, even 
when separately clenched, there was the same kind of pause, and 
a noticeable tendency of relaxation on the part of the thumb. 

1 "Walter Savage Landor, a Biography by John Forster, 2 Vols., 
Chapman and Hall. 



LANDOR'S LIFE. 301 

Let the face be never so intense or fierce, there was a commen- 
tary of gentleness in the hands, essential to be taken along with 
it. Like Hamlet, Landor would speak daggers but use none. 
In the expression of his hands, though angrily closed, there was 
always gentleness and tenderness ; just as when they were open, 
and the handsome old gentleman would wave them with a little 
courtly flourish that sat well upon him, as he recalled some classic 
compliment that he had rendered to some reigning Beauty, there 
was a chivalrous grace about them such as pervades his softer 
verses. Thus, the fictitious Mr. Boy thorn (to whom we may refer 
without impropriety in this connection, as Mr. Forster does) de- 
claims "with unimaginable energy" the while his bird is "perched 
upon his thumb," and he "softly smooths its feathers with his 
forefinger." 

From the spirit of Mr. Forster 's Biography these characteristic 
hands are never omitted, and hence (apart from its literary merits) 
its great value. As the same masterly writer's Life and Times of 
Oliver Goldsmith is a generous and yet conscientious picture of a 
period, so this is a not less generous and yet conscientious picture of 
one life ; of a life, with all its aspirations, achievements, and dis- 
appointments ; all its capabilities, opportunties, and irretrievable 
mistakes. It is essentially a sad book, and herein lies proof of its 
truth and worth. The life of almost any man possessing great 
gifts, would be a sad book to himself; and this book enables us 
not only to see its subject, but to be its subject if we will. 

Mr. Forster is of opinion that "Landor's fame very surely 
awaits him." This point admitted or doubted, the value of the 
book remains the same. It needs not to know his works (other- 
wise than through his biographer's exposition), it needs not to have 
known himself, to find a deep interest in these pages. More or 
less of their warning is in every conscience ; and some admiration 
of a fine genius, and of a great, wild, generous nature, incapable of 
mean self-extenuation or dissimulation — if unhappily incapable of 
self-repression too — should be in every breast. " There may be 
still living many persons," Walter Landor's brother, Robert, writes 
to Mr. Forster of this book, "who would contradict any narrative 
of yours in which the best qualities were remembered, the worst 
forgotten." Mr. Forster's comment is : "I had not waited for 
this appeal to resolve, that, if this memoir were written at all, it 
should contain, as far as might lie within my power, a fair state- 
ment of the truth." And this eloquent passage of truth immedi- 
ately follows : " Few of his infirmities are without something kindly 
or generous about them ; and we are not long in discovering there 
is nothing so wildly incredible that he will not himself in perfect 



802 REPRINTED PIECES. 

good faith believe. When he published his first book of poems on 
quitting Oxford, the profits were to be reserved for a distressed 
clergyman. When he published his Latin poems, the poor of 
Leipzig were to have the sum they realised. When his comedy 
was ready to be acted, a Spaniard who had sheltered him at Castro 
was to be made richer by it. ' When he competed for the prize of 
the Academy of Stockholm, it was to go to the poor of Sweden. 
If nobody got anything from any one of these enterprises, the fault 
at all events was not his. With his extraordinary power of for- 
getting disappointments, he was prepared at each successive failure 
to start afresh, as if each had been a triumph. I shall have to 
delineate this peculiarity as strongly in the last half as in the first 
half of his life, and it was certainly an amiable one. He was ready 
at all times to set aside, out of his own possessions, something for 
somebody who might please him for the time ; and when frailties 
of temper and tongue are noted, this other eccentricity should not 
be omitted. He desired eagerly the love as well as the good opin- 
ion of those whom for the time he esteemed, and no one was more 
affectionate while under such influences. It is not a small virtue 
to feel such genuine pleasure, as he always did in giving and re- 
ceiving pleasure. His generosity, too, was bestowed chiefly on 
those who could make small acknowledgment in thanks and no 
return in kind." 

Some of his earlier contemporaries may have thought him a vain 
man. Most assuredly he was not, in the common acceptation of 
the term. A vain man has little or no admiration to bestow upon 
competitors. Landor had an inexhaustible fund. He thought 
well of his writings, or he would not have preserved them. He 
said and wrote that he thought well of them, because that was 
his mind about them, and he said and wrote his mind. He was 
one of the few men of whom you might always know the whole ; 
of whom you might always know the worst, as well as the best. 
He had no reservations or duplicities. " No, by Heaven ! " he 
would say (" with unimaginable energy"), if any good adjective 
were coupled with him which he did not deserve : "I am nothing 
of the kind : I wish I were ; but I don't deserve the attribute, and 
I never did, and I never shall ! " His intense consciousness of him- 
self never led to his poorly excusing himself, and seldom to his 
violently asserting himself When he told some little story of his 
bygone social experiences, in Florence, or where not, as he was fond 
of doing, it took the innocent form of making all the interlocutors, 
Landors. It was observable, too, that they always called him 
"Mr. Landor" — rather ceremoniously and submissively. There 
was a certain "Caro Padre Abate Marina" — invariably so ad- 



LANDOR'S LIFE. 303 

dressed in these anecdotes — who figures through a great many of 
them, and who always expressed himself in this deferential tone. 

Mr. Forster writes of Landor's character thus : 

" A man must be judged, at first, by what he says and does. 
But with him such extravagance as I have referred to was little 
more than the habitual indulgence . (on such themes) of passion- 
ate feelings and language, indecent indeed but utterly purpose- 
less ; the mere explosion of wrath provoked by tyranny or cruelty ; 
the irregularities of an overheated steam-engine too weak for its own 
vapour. It is very certain that no one could detest oppression more 
truly than Landor did in all seasons and times ; and if no one ex- 
pressed that scorn, that abhorrence of tyranny and fraud, more has- 
tily or more intemperately, all his fire and fury signified really little 
else than ill-temper too easily provoked. Not to justify or excuse 
such language, but to explain it, this consideration is urged. If not 
uniformly placable, Landor was always compassionate. He was 
tender-hearted rather than bloody-minded at all times, and upon 
only the most partial acquaintance with his writings could other 
opinion be formed. A completer knowledge of them would satisfy 
any one that he had as little real disposition to kill a king as to 
kill a mouse. In fact there is not a more marked peculiarity in 
his genius than the union with its strength of a most uncommon 
gentleness, and in the personal ways of the man this was equally 
manifest." — Vol. I. 2^- 496. 

Of his works, thus : 

"Though his mind was cast in the antique mould, it had opened 
itself to every kind of impression through a long and varied life ; he 
has written with equal excellence in both poetry and prose, which 
can hardly be said of any of his contemporaries ; and perhaps the 
single epithet by which his books would be best described is that 
reserved exclusively for books not characterised only by genius, but 
also by special individuality. They are unique. Having possessed 
them, we should miss them. Their place would be supplied by no 
others. They have that about them, moreover, which renders it 
almost certain that they will frequently be resorted to in future 
time. There are none in the language more quotable. Even where 
impulsiveness and want of patience have left them most fragmen- 
tary, this rich compensation is offered to the reader. There is 
hardly a conceivable subject, in life or literature, which they do not 
illustrate by striking aphorisms, by concise and profound observa- 
tions, by wisdom ever applicable to the needs of men, and by wit 
as available for their enjoyment. Nor, above all, will there any- 
where be found a more pervading passion for liberty, a fiercer 
hatred of the base, a wider sympathy with the wronged and the 



304 REPRINTED PIECES. 

oppressed, or help more ready at all times for those who fight at 
odds and disadvantage against the powerful and the fortunate, than 
in the writings of Walter Savage Landor." — Last imge of second 
volume. 

The impression was strong upon the present writer's mind, as on 
Mr. Forster's, during years of close friendship with the subject of 
this biography, that his animosities were chiefly referable to the 
singular inability in him to dissociate other people's ways of think- 
ing from his own. He had, to the last, a ludicrous grievance (both 
Mr. Forster and the writer have often amused themselves with it), 
against a good-natured nobleman, doubtless perfectly unconscious of 
having ever giving him offence. The offence was, that on the 
occasion of some dinner party in another nobleman's house, many 
years before, this innocent lord (then a commoner) had passed in to 
dinner, through some door, before him, as he himself was about to 
pass in through that same door with a lady on his arm. Now, 
Landor was a gentleman of most scrupulous politeness, and in his 
carriage of himself towards ladies there was a certain mixture of 
stateliness and deference, belonging to quite another time and, as 
Mr. Pepys would observe, " mighty pretty to see." If he could by 
any effort imagine himself committing such a high crime and mis- 
demeanour as that in question, he could only imagine himself as 
doing it of a set purpose, under the sting of some vast injury, 
to inflict a great affront. A deliberately designed affront on the 
part of another man, it therefore remained to the end of his days. 
The manner in which, as time went on, he permeated the unfortu- 
nate lord's ancestry with this offence, was whimsically characteristic 
of Landor. The writer remembers very well, when only the indi- 
vidual himself was held responsible in the story for the breach of 
good breeding ; but in another ten years or so, it began to appear 
that his father had always been remarkable for ill manners ; and in 
yet another ten years or so, his grandfather developed into quite a 
prodigy of coarse behaviour. 

Mr. Boythorn — if he may again be quoted — said of his adver- 
sary, Sir Leicester Dedlock : "That fellow is, and his father tvas, 
and his grandfather was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, 
pig-headed numskull, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, 
bom in any station of life but a walking-stick's ! " 

The strength of some of Mr. Landor's most captivating kind 
qualities was traceable to the same source. Knowing how keenly 
he himself would feel the being at any small social disadvan- 
tage, or the being unconsciously placed in any ridiculous light, he 
was wonderfully considerate of shy people, or of such as might be 
below the level of his usual conversation, or otherwise out of their 



LANDOR'S LIFE. 305 

element. The writer once observed him in the keenest distress of 
mind in behalf of a modest young stranger who came into a draw- 
ing-room with a glove on his head. An expressive commentary on 
this sympathetic condition, and on the delicacy with which he ad- 
vanced to the young stranger's rescue, was afterwards furnished by 
himself at a friendly dinner at Gore House, when it was the most 
delightful of houses. His dress — say his cravat or shirt-collar — 
had become slightly disarranged on a hot evening, and Count D'Or- 
say laughingly called his attention to the circumstance as we rose 
from table. Landor became flushed, and greatly agitated : " My dear 
Count D'Orsay, I thank you ! My dear Count D'Orsay, I thank 
you from my soul for pointing out to me the abominable condition to 
which I am reduced ! If I had entered the drawing-room and 
presented myself before Lady Blessington in so absurd a light, I 
would have instantly gone home, put a pistol to my head, and 
blown my brains out ! " 

Mr. Forster tells a similar story of his keeping a company wait- 
ing dinner, through losing his way ; and of his seeing no remedy 
for that breach of politeness but cutting his throat, or drowning 
himself, unless a countryman whom he met could direct him by a 
short road to the house where the party were assembled. Surely 
these are expressive notes on the gravity and reality of his 
explosive inclinations to kill kings ! 

His manner towards boys was charming, and the earnestness of 
his wish to be on equal terms with them and to win their confi- 
dence was quite touching. Few, reading Mr. Forster's book, can 
fail to see in this his pensive remembrance of that " studious wilful 
boy at once shy and impetuous," who had not many intimacies 
at Rugby, but who was "generally popular and respected, and 
used his influence often to save the younger boys from undue 
harshness or violence." The impulsive yearnings of his pas- 
sionate heart towards his own boy, on their meeting at Bath, 
after years of separation, likewise burn through this phase of his 
character. 

But a more spiritual, softened, and unselfish aspect of it was to 
be derived from his respectful belief in happiness which he himself 
had missed. His marriage had not been a felicitous one — it may 
be fairly assumed for either side — but not a trace of bitterness or 
distrust concerning other marriages was in his mind. He was 
never more serene than in the midst of a domestic circle, and was 
invariably remarkable for a perfectly benignant interest in young 
couples and young lovers. That, in his ever-fresh fancy, he con- 
ceived in this association innumerable histories of himself involving 
far more unlikely events that never happened than Isaac D'lsraeU 



306 EEPRINTED PIECES. 

ever imagined, is hardly to be doubted ; but as to this part of his 
real history he was mute, or revealed his nobleness in an impulse 
to be generously just. We verge on delicate ground, but a slight 
remembrance rises in the writer which can grate nowhere. Mr. 
Forster relates how a certain friend, being in Florence, sent him 
home a leaf from the garden of his old house at Fiesole. That 
friend had first asked him what he should send him home, and he 
had stipulated for this gift — found by Mr. Forster among his 
papers after his death. The friend, on coming back to England, 
related to Landor that he had been much embarrassed, on going in 
search of the leaf, by his driver's suddenly stopping his horses in 
a narrow lane, and presenting him (the friend) to "La Signora 
Landora." The lady was walking alone on a bright, Italian winter- 
day ; and the man, having been told to drive to the Villa Landora, 
inferred that he must be conveying a guest or visitor. " I pulled 
off my hat," said the friend, " apologised for the coachman's mis- 
take, and drove on. The lady was walking with a rapid and firm 
step, had bright eyes, a fine fresh colour, and looked animated and 
agreeable." Landor checked off each clause of the description, 
with a stately nod of more than ready assent, and replied, with all 
his tremendous energy concentrated into the sentence : " And the 
Lord forbid that I should do otherwise then declare that she 
always was agreeable — to every one but me/" 

Mr. Forster step by step builds up the evidence on which he 
writes this life and states this character. In like manner, he gives 
the evidence for his high estimation of Landor's works, and — it 
may be added — for their recompense against some neglect, in find- 
ing so sympathetic, acute, and devoted a champion. Nothing in 
the book is more remarkable than his examination of each of 
Landor's successive pieces of writing, his delicate discernment of 
their beauties, and his strong desire to impart his own perceptions 
in this wise to the great audience that is yet to come. It rarely 
befalls an author to have such a commentator : to become the sub- 
ject of so much artistic skill and knowledge, combined with such 
infinite and loving pains. Alike as a piece of Biography, and as a 
commentary upon the beauties of a great writer, the book is a 
massive book; as the man and the writer were massive too. 
Sometimes, when the balance held by Mr. Forster has seemed for a 
moment to turn a little heavily against the infirmities of tempera- 
ment of a grand old friend, we have felt something of a shock; 
but we have not once been able to gainsay the justice of the scales. 
This feeling, too, has only fiuttered out of the detail, here or there, 
and has vanished before the whole. . We fully agree with Mr. 
Forster, that "Judgment has been passed" — as it should be — 



LANDOR'S LIFE. 307 

" with an equal desire to be only just on all the qualities of his 
temperament which affected necessarily not his own life only. But, 
now that the story is told, no one will have difficulty in striking 
the balance between its good and ill; and what was really imper- 
ishable in Landor's genius will not be treasured less, or less under- 
stood, for the more perfect knowledge of his character." 

Mr. Forster's second volume gives a facsimile of Landor's writ- 
ing at seventy-five. It may be interesting to those who are curious 
in calligrapliy to know that its resemblance to the recent hand- 
writing of that great genius, M. Victor Hugo, is singularly strong. 

In a military burial-ground in India, the name of Walter Land or 
is associated with the present writer's, over the grave of a young 
officer. No name could stand there, more inseparably associated 
in the writer's mind with the dignity of generosity : with a noble 
scorn of all littleness, all cruelty, oppression, fraud, and false 
pretence. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE 
APPRENTICES 



THE LAZY TOUR 



TWO IDLE APPRENTICES 



BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

CHARLES DICKENS THE YOUNGER 



MACMILLAN AND CO. 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1896 

All rights reserved 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER I 323 

CHAPTER II 337 

CHAPTER III 362 

CHAPTER IV 375 

CHAPTER V . , . . o 393 



31( 



INTRODUCTION. 

" The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices " was written 
in collaboration by Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins, and 
was originally published in " Household Words " in the year 
1857. 

Of the two separate stories it contains, that of the double- 
bedded room at Doncaster was by Thomas Idle (Wilkie 
Collins), that of the old man at Lancaster by Francis 
Goodchild (Charles Dickens). It is not possible exactly 
to apportion each writer's share in the general narrative, 
but the greater portion of it bears unmistakeable signs of 
being the work of Charles Dickens. 

Writing to his brother-in-law, Henry Austin, about the 
proposed trip, Charles Dickens said: "On Monday I am 
going away with Collins for ten days or a fortnight, on 
a 'tour in search of an article' for 'Household Words.' 
We have not the least idea Avhere we are going ; but lie 
says, 'Let's look at the Norfolk Coast,' and I say, 'Let's 
look at the back of the Atlantic' I don't quite know what 
I mean by that ; but have a general impression that I mean 
something knowing." 

CHAELES DICKENS 

THE YOUNGER. 
317 



NOTES. 



CHAPTER I. 

[Charles Dickens, writing to John Forster, gave the following 
account of the accident on Carrock — or Carrick, for he spells it 
both ways. It is interesting to compare the sketch with the fin- 
ished picture. 

" We came straight to it yesterday. Nobody goes up. Guides 
have forgotten it. Master of a little inn, excellent north-country- 
man volunteered. Went up, in a tremendous rain. C. D. beat 
Mr. Porter (name of landlord) in half a mile. Mr. P, done up 
in no time. Three nevertheless went on. Mr. P. again leading ; 
C. D. and C. following. Rain terrific, black mists, darkness of 
night. INIr. P. agitated. C. D. confident. C. (a long way down 
in perspective) submissive. All wet through. No poles. Not so 
much as a walking stick in the party. Reach the summit at about 
one in the day. Dead darkness as of night. Mr. P. (excellent 
fellow to the last) uneasy. C. D. produces compass from pocket. 
Mr. P. reassured. Farm-house where dog-cart was left, N.N.W. 
Mr. P. complimentary. Descent commenced. C. D. with com- 
pass, triumphant, until compass, with the heat and wet of C. D.'s 
pocket, breaks. Mr. P. (who never had a compass), inconsolable, 
confesses he has not been on Carrick Fell for twenty years, and he 
don't know the way down. Darker and darker. Nobody discerni- 
ble, two yards off, by the other two. Mr. P. makes suggestions, 
but no way. It becomes clear to C. D. and to C. that Mr. P. is 
going round and round the mountain and never coming down. 
Mr. P. sits on angular gTanite, and says he is 'just fairly doon.' 
C. D. revives Mr. P. with laughter, the only restorative in the com- 
pany. Mr. P. again complimentary. Descent, tired once more. 
Mr. P. worse and worse. Council of war. Proposals from C. D. 
to go 'slap down.' Seconded by C. Mr. P. objects, on account of 
precipice called The Black Arches, and terror of the countryside. 
More wandering. Mr. P. terror-stricken, but game. Watercourse, 
thundering and roaring, reached. C. D. suggests that it must run 
to the river, and had best be followed, subject to all gymnastic 
hazards. Mr. P. opposes, but gives in. Watercourse followed 
accordingly. Leaps, splashes, and tumbles, for two hours. C. lost. 
C. D. w^hoops. Cries for assistance from behind. C. D. returns. 
C. with horribly sprahied ankle, lying in rivulet. . . . We got 

319 



320 NOTES. 

down at last in the wildest place, preposterously out of the course ; 
and propping up C. against stones, sent Mr. P. to the other side of 
Cumberland for dog-cart, so got back to his Inn, and changed. 
Shoe or stocking on the bad foot out of the question. Foot bun- 
dled up in a flannel waistcoat. C. D. carrying C. everywhere ; into 
and out of carriages; up and down stairs; to bed; every step. 
And so to Wigton, got doctor, and here we are ! ! A pretty busi- 
ness, we flatter ourselves ! "] 

CHAPTER 11. 

[Of Wigton Charles Dickens wrote to Miss Hogarth: "We 
lay last night at a place called Wigton with the wonderful pecu- 
liarity that it had no population, no business, no streets to speak 
of ; but five linen-drapers within range of our small windows, one 
linen-draper's next door, and five more linen-drapers round the 
corner. I ordered a night-light in my bedroom. A queer little 
old woman brought me one of the common Child's night-lights, 
and seeming to think that I looked at it with interest, said 'It's 
joost a vara ceeyourious thing, Sir, and joost new come oop. It'll 
burn awt hours a 'end, an no goother, nor no waste, nor ony sike a 
thing, if you can creedit what I say, seeing the article.' "] 

CHAPTER III. 

[Charles Dickens's description of AUonby in a letter to Miss 
Hogarth ran as follows : " This is a little place with fifty houses, 
five bathing-machines, five girls in, straw-hats, five men in straw- 
hats, and no other company. The little houses are all_ in half 
mourning — yellow on white stone, and black; and it reminds me 
of what Broadstairs might have been if it had not inherited a 
cliff, and had been an Irishman." 

He also told this story : " The landlady of the little Inn at 
AUonby lived at Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, when I went down 
there before ' Nickleby,' and was smuggled into the room to see me, 
when I was secretly found out. She is an immensely fat woman 
now. 'But I could tuck my arm round her waist then, Mr. 
Dickens,' the landlord said when she told me the story as I was 
going to bed the night before last. ' And can't you do it now ? ' I 
said, ' you insensible dog. Look at me ! Here's a picture ! ' Ac- 
cordingly I got round as much of her as I could ; and this gallant 
action was the most successful I ever performed on the whole."] 

CHAPTER IV. 

[The old King's Arms Hotel at Lancaster here described was 
pulled down, and its valuable and interesting contents dispersed 
at auction sale, a few years ago. A new hotel has been built on 
its site, and is quite in keeping with the traditions of the place. 

A letter of Charles Dickens's gives this as the bill-of-fare which 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 321 

was served to the two apprentices by the excellent Mr. Sly, who 
was then the landlord of the " King's Arms " : " Two little sal- 
mon trout ; a sirloin steak ; a brace of partridges ; seven dishes of 
sweets ; five dishes of dessert, led off by a bowl of peaches ; and 
in the centre an enormous bride-cake." He added " Collins turned 
pale, and estimated the dinner at half-a-guinea each."] 



CHAPTER V. 

[Blink Bonny, the winner of the Derby and Oaks at Epsom, 
was the favourite for the Great St. Leger Stakes at Doncaster in 
1857, but did not win. On the Friday she won a race, over the 
same course, under circumstances which led both "lunatics and 
keepers " to believe that she would have won the St. Leger but for 
foul play on the part of her trainer or jockey, and induced them 
to " become inspired with rage " and to make a rush when she 
won, at the winning — not the losing — jockey, who was supposed 
to have " pulled " her on the Wednesday. 

AVhat he called " a wonderful, paralysing coincidence " happened 
to Charles Dickens at these Doncaster races. He bought the card; 
facetiously wrote down three names for the winners of the three 
chief races (never in his life having heard or thought of any of 
the horses, except that the winner of the Derby, who proved to be 
nowhere, had been mentioned to him) and, as he said, " if you can 
believe it without your hair standing on end, those three races 
were won, one after another, by those three horses ! ! ! " 

As the result of his week's observation of the proceedings at 
Doncaster, Charles Dickens expressed his belief that if a boy with 
any good in him, but with a dawning propensity to sporting and 
betting, were but brought to the Doncaster races soon enough, it 
would cure him. The efficacy of this prescription, however, may 
well be doubted.] 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE 
APPRENTICES. 

CHAPTER I. 

In the autumn month of September, eighteen hundred and fifty- 
seven, wherein these presents bear date, two idle apprentices, ex- 
hausted by the long, hot summer, and the long, hot work it had 
brought with it, ran away from their employer. They were bound 
to a highly meritorious lady (named Literature), of fair credit and 
repute, though, it must be acknowledged, not quite so highly esteemed 
in the City as she might be. This is the more remarkable, as there 
is nothing against the respectable lady in that quarter, but quite 
the contrary ; her family having rendered eminent service to many 
famous citizens of London. It may be sufficient to name Sir Will- 
iam Walworth, Lord Mayor under King Richard 11. , at the time 
of Wat Tyler's insurrection, and Sir Richard Whittington : which 
latter distinguished man and magistrate was doubtless indebted to 
the lady's family for the gift of his celebrated cat. There is also 
strong reason to suppose that they rang the Highgate bells for him 
with their own hands. 

The misguided young men who thus shirked their duty to the 
mistress from whom they had received many favours, were act- 
uated by the low idea of making a perfectly idle trip, in any 
direction. They had no intention of going anywhere in particular; 
they wanted to see nothing, they wanted to know nothing, they 
wanted to learn nothing, they wanted to do nothing. They wanted 
only to be idle. They took to themselves (after Hogarth), the 
names of Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Coodchild ; but there 
was not a moral pin to choose between them, and they were both 
idle in the last degree. 

Between Francis and Thomas, however, there was this difference 
of character : Goodchild was laboriously idle, and would take upon 
himself any amount of pains and labour to assure himself that he 
was idle ; in short, had no better idea of idleness than that it was 

323 



324 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

useless industry. Thomas Idle, on the other hand, was an idler of 
the unmixed Irish or Neapolitan type ; a passive idler, a born-and- 
bred idler, a consistent idler, who practised what he would have 
preached if he had not been too idle to preach ; a one entire and 
perfect chrysolite of idleness. 

The two idle apprentices found themselves, within a few hours 
of their escape, walking down into the North of England, that is 
to say, Thomas was lying in a meadow, looking at the railway 
trains as they passed over a distant viaduct — which was his idea 
of walking down into the North ; while Francis was walking a 
mile due South against time — which was his idea of walking down 
into the North. In the meantime the day waned, and the mile- 
stones remained unconquered. 

" Tom," said Goodchild, " the sun is getting low. Up, and let 
us go forward ! " 

" Nay," quoth Thomas Idle, " I have not done with Annie 
Laurie yet." And he proceeded with that idle but popular ballad, 
to the effect that for the bonnie young person of that name he 
would "lay him doon and dee" — equivalent, in prose, to lay him 
down and die. 

" What an ass that fellow was ! " cried Goodchild, with the 
bitter emphasis of contempt. 

"Which fellow?" asked Thomas Idle. 

" The fellow in your song. Lay him doon and dee ! Finely 
he'd show off before the girl by doing that. A sniveller ! Why 
couldn't he get up, and punch somebody's head ! " 

" Whose 1 " asked Thomas Idle. 

" Anybody's. Everybody's would be better than nobody's ! If 
I fell into that state of mind about a girl, do you think I'd lay me 
doon and dee? No, sir," proceeded Goodchild, with a disparaging 
assumption of the Scottish accent, " I'd get me oop and peetch into 
somebody. \Vouldn't you 1 " 

"I wouldn't have anything to do with her," yawned Thomas 
Idle. " Why should I take the trouble ? " 

" It's no trouble, Tom, to fall in love," said Goodchild, shaking 
his head. 

"It's trouble enough to fall out of it, once you're in it," retorted 
Tom. " So I keep out of it altogether. It would be better for 
you, if you did the same." 

Mr. Goodchild, who is always in love with somebody, and not 
unfrequently with several objects at once, made no reply. He 
heaved a sigh of the kind which is termed by the lower orders 
" a bellowser," and then, heaving Mr. Idle on his feet (who was 
not half so heavy as the sigh), urged him northward. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 325 

These two had sent their personal baggage on by train : only- 
retaining each a knapsack. Idle now applied himself to constantly 
regretting the train, to tracking it through the intricacies of Brad- 
shaw's Guide, and finding out where it is now — and where now 
— and where now — and to asking what was the use of walking, 
when you could ride at such a pace as that. Was it to see the 
country? If that was the object, look at it out of the carriage- 
windows. There was a great deal more of it to be seen there than 
here. Besides, who wanted to see the country ? Nobody. And 
again, whoever did walk 1 Nobody. Fellows set off to walk, but 
they never did it. They came back and said they did, but they 
didn't. Then why should he walk? He wouldn't walk. He 
swore it by this milestone ! 

It was the fifth from London, so far had they penetrated into 
the North. Submitting to the powerful chain of argument. Good- 
child proposed a return to the Metropolis, and a falling back upon 
Euston Square Terminus. Thomas assented with alacrity, and so 
they walked down into the North by the next morning's express, 
and carried their knapsacks in the luggage-van. 

It was like all other expresses, as every express is and must be. 
It bore through the harvest country a smell like a large washing- 
day, and a sharp issue of steam as from a huge brazen tea-urn. 
The greatest power in nature and art combined, it yet glided over 
dangerous heights in the sight of people looking up from fields and 
roads, as smoothly and unreally as a light miniature plaything. 
Now, the engine shrieked in hysterics of such intensity, that it 
seemed desirable that the men who had her in charge should hold 
her feet, slap her hands, and bring her to; now, burrowed into 
tunnels with a stubborn and undemonstrative energy so confusing 
that the train seemed to be flying back into leagues of darkness. 
Here, were station after station, swallowed up by the express with- 
out stopping ; here, stations where it fired itself in like a volley 
of cannon-balls, swooped away four country-people with nosegays, 
and three men of business with portmanteaus, and fired itself off 
again, bang, bang, bang ! At long intervals were uncomfortable 
refreshment-rooms, made more uncomfortable by the scorn of 
Beauty towards Beast, the public (but to whom she never re- 
lented, as Beauty did in the story, towards the other Beast), and 
where sensitive stomachs were fed, with a contemptuous sharp- 
ness occasioning indigestion. Here, again, were stations with 
nothing going but a bell, and wonderful wooden razors set aloft 
on great posts, shaving the air. In these fields, the horses, sheep, 
and cattle were well used to the thundering meteor, and didn't 
mind ; in those, they were all set scampering together, and a herd 



326 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

of pigs scoured after them. The pastoral country darkened, be- 
came coaly, became smoky, became infernal, got better, got worse, 
improved again, grew rugged, turned romantic; was a wood, a 
stream, a chain of hills, a gorge, a moor, a cathedral town, a forti- 
fied place, a waste. Now, miserable black dwellings, a black canal, 
and sick black towers of chimneys ; now, a trim garden, where the 
flowers were bright and fair ; now, a wilderness of hideous altars 
all a-blaze ; now, the water meadows with their fairy rings ; now, 
the mangy patch of unlet building ground outside the stagnant 
town, with the larger ring where the Circus was last week. The 
temperature changed, the dialect changed, the people changed, faces 
got sharper, manner got shorter, eyes got shrewder and harder ; yet 
all so quickly, that the spruce guard in the London uniform and 
silver lace, had not yet rumpled his shirt collar, delivered half the 
despatches in his shiny little pouch, or read his newspaper. 

Carlisle ! Idle and Goodchild had got to Carlisle. It looked 
congenially and delightfully idle. Something in the way of public 
amusement had happened last month, and something else was 
going to happen before Christmas; and, in the meantime there 
was a lecture on India for those who liked it — which Idle and 
Goodchild did not. Likewise, by those who liked them, there 
were impressions to be bought of all the vapid prints, going and 
gone, and of nearly all the vapid books. For those who wanted 
to put anything in missionary boxes, here were the boxes. For 
those who wanted the Reverend Mr. Podgers (artist's proofs, thirty 
shillings), here was Mr. Podgers to any amount. Not less gra- 
cious and abundant, Mr. Codgers also of the vineyard, but opposed 
to Mr. Podgers, brotherly tooth and nail. Here, were guide-books 
to the neighbouring antiquities, and eke the Lake country, in 
several dry and husky sorts; here, many physically and morally 
impossible heads of both sexes, for young ladies to copy, in the 
exercise of the art of drawing ; here, further, a large impression 
of Mr. Spurgeon, solid as to the flesh, not to say even something 
gross. The working young men of Carlisle were drawn up, with 
their hands in their pockets, across the pavements, four and six 
abreast, and a-ppeared (much to the satisfaction of Mr. Idle) to 
have nothing else to do. The working and growing young women 
of Carlisle, from the age of twelve upwards, promenaded the streets 
in the cool of the evening, and rallied the said young men. Some- 
times the young men rallied the young women, as in the case of 
a group gathered round an accordion-player, from among whom a 
young man advanced behind a young woman for whom he appeared 
to have a tenderness, and hinted to her that he was there and 
playful, by giving her (he wore clogs) a kick. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 327 

On market morning, Carlisle woke up amazingly, and became 
(to the Two Idle Apprentices) disagreeably and reproachfidly busy. 
There were its cattle market, its sheep market, and its pig market 
down by the river, with raw-boned and shock-headed Rob Roys 
hiding their Lowland dresses beneath heavy plaids, prowling in and 
out among the animals, and flavouring the air with fumes of whis- 
key. There was its corn market down the main street, with hum 
of chaftering over open sacks. There was its general market in 
the street too, with heather brooms on which the purple flower still 
flourished, and heather baskets primitive and fresh to behold. 
With women trying on clogs and caps at open stalls, and " Bible 
stalls " adjoining. With " Doctor Mantle's Dispensary for the cure 
of all Human Maladies and no charge for advice," and with Doctor 
Mantle's " Laboratory of Medical, Chemical, and Botanical Science" 
— both healing institutions established on one pair of trestles, one 
board, and one sun-blind. With the renowned phrenologist from 
London, begging to be favoured (at sixpence each) with the company 
of clients of both sexes, to whom, on examination of their heads, he 
would make revelations " enabling him or her to know themselves." 
Through all these bargains and blessings, the recruiting-serjeant 
watchfully elbowed his way, a thread of War in the peaceful skein. 
Likewise on the walls were printed hints that the Oxford Blues 
might not be indisposed to hear of a few fine active young men ; 
and that whereas the standard of that distinguished corps is full 
six feet, " growing lads of five feet eleven " need not absolutely 
despair of being accepted. 

Scenting the morning air more pleasantly than the buried maj- 
esty of Denmark did, Messrs. Idle and Goodchild rode away from 
Carlisle at eight o'clock one forenoon, bound for the village of 
Heske, Newmarket, some fourteen miles distant. Goodchild (who 
had already begun to doubt whether he was idle : as his way 
always is when he has nothing to do), had read of a certain black 
old Cumberland hill or mountain, called Carrock, or Carrock Fell ; 
and had arrived at the conclusion that it would be the culminating 
triumph of Idleness to ascend the same. Thomas Idle, dwelling 
on the pains inseparable from that achievement, had expressed the 
strongest doubts of the expediency, and even of the sanity, of the 
enterprise; but Goodchild had carried his point, and they rode 
away. 

Up hill and down hill, and twisting to the right, and twisting 
to the left, and with old Skiddaw (who has vaunted himself a 
great deal more than his merits deserve ; but that is rather the 
Avay of the Lake country), dodging the apprentices in a picturesque 
and pleasant manner. Good, weather-proof, warm, pleasant houses, 



328 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

well white-limecl, scantily dotting the road. Clean children com- 
ing out to look, carrying other clean children as big as themselves. 
Harvest still lying out and much rained upon; here and there, 
harvest still unreaped. Well-cultivated gardens attached to the 
cottages, with plenty of produce forced out of their hard soil. 
Lonely nooks, and wild ; but people can be born, and married, and 
buried in such nooks, and can live and love, and be loved, there as 
elsewhere, thank God ! (Mr. Goodchild's remark.) By-and-bye, 
the village. Black, coarse-stoned, rough- windowed houses; some 
with outer staircases, like Swiss houses ; a sinuous and stony gutter 
winding up hill and round the corner, by way of street. All the chil- 
dren running out directly. Women pausing in washing, to peep 
from doorways and very little windows. Such were the observa- 
tions of Messrs. Idle and Goodchild, as their conveyance stopped 
at the village shoemaker's. Old Carrock gloomed down upon it 
all in a very ill-tempered state ; and rain was beginning. 

The village shoemaker declined to have anything to do with 
Carrock. No visitors went up Carrock. No visitors came there 
at all. Aa' the world ganged awa' yon. The driver appealed to 
the Innkeeper. The Innkeeper had two men working in the fields, 
and one of them should be called in, to go up Carrock as guide. 
Messrs. Idle and Goodchild, highly approving, entered the Inn- 
keeper's house, to drink whiskey and eat oatcake. 

The Innkeeper was not idle enough — was not idle at all, which 
was a great fault in him — but was a fine specimen of a north- 
country man, or any kind of man. He had a ruddy cheek, a 
bright eye, a well-knit frame, an immense hand, a cheery out- 
speaking voice, and a straight, bright, broad look. He had a 
drawing-room, too, up-stairs, which was worth a visit to the Cum- 
berland Fells. (This was Mr. Francis Goodchild's opinion, in 
which Mr. Thomas Idle did not concur.) 

The ceiling of this drawing-room was so crossed and recrossed 
by beams of unequal lengths, radiating from a centre, in a corner, 
that it looked like a broken star-fish. The room was comfortably 
and solidly furnished with good mahogany and horsehair. It had 
a snug fire-side, and a couple of well-curtained windows, looking 
out upon the wild country behind the house. What it most de- 
veloped was, an unexpected taste for little ornaments and nick- 
nacks, of which it contained a most surprising number. They 
were not very various, consisting in great part of waxen babies 
with their limbs more or less mutilated, appealing on one leg to the 
parental affections from under little cupping glasses ; but, Uncle Tom 
was there, in crockery, receiving theological instructions from Miss 
Eva, who grew out of his side like a wen, in an exceedingly rough 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 329 

state of profile propagandism. Eugravings of Mr. Hunt's country 
boy, before and after his pie, were on the wall, divided by a highly- 
coloured nautical piece, the subject of which had all her colours 
(and more) flying, and was making great way through a sea of a 
regular pattern, like a lady's collar. A benevolent, elderly gentle- 
man of the last century, with a powdered head, kept guard, in oil and 
varnish, over a most perplexing piece of furniture on a table ; in 
appearance between a driving seat and an angular knife-box, but, 
when opened, a musical instrument of tinkling wires, exactly like 
David's harp packed for travelling. Everything became a nick- 
nack in this curious room. The copper tea-kettle, burnished up 
to the highest point of glory, took his station on a stand of his 
own at the greatest possible distance from the fire-place, and said : 
"By your leave, not a kittle, but a bijou." The Stafi'ordshire-ware 
butter-dish with the cover on got upon a little round occasional 
table in a window, with a worked top, and announced itself to the 
two chairs accidentally placed there, as an aid to polite conversa- 
tion, a graceful trifle in china to be chatted over by callers, as they 
airily trifled away the visiting moments of a butterfly existence, in 
that rugged old village on the Cumberland Fells. The very foot- 
stool could not keep the floor, but got upon a sofa, and therefrom 
proclaimed itself, in high relief of white and liver-coloured wool, a 
favourite spaniel coiled up for repose. Though, truly, in spite of 
its bright glass eyes, the spaniel was the least successful assumption 
in the collection : being perfectly flat, and dismally suggestive of a 
recent mistake in sitting down on the part of some corpulent mem- 
ber of the family. 

There were books, too, in this room ; books on the table, books 
on the chimney-piece, books in an open press in the corner. Field- 
ing was there, and Smollett was there, and Steele and Addison 
were there, in dispersed volumes ; and there were tales of those 
who go down to the sea in ships, for windy nights ; and there was 
really a choice of good books for rainy days or fine. It was so veiy 
pleasant to see these things in such a lonesome by-place — so very 
agreeable to find these evidences of a taste, however homely, that 
went beyond the beautiful cleanliness and trimness of the house — 
so fanciful to imagine what a Avonder a room must be to the little 
children born in the gloomy village — what grand impressions of 
it those of them who became wanderers over the earth would carry 
away ; and how, at distant ends of the world, some old voyagers 
would die, cherishing the belief that the finest apartment known 
to men was once in the Heske-Newmarket Inn, in rare old Cum- 
berland — it was such a charmingly lazy pursuit to entertain these 
rambling thoughts over the choice oatcake and the genial whiskey, 



330 THE LAZY TOUB OF TWO IDLE APPKENTICES. 

that Mr. Idle and Mr. Goodchild never asked themselves how it 
came to pass that the men in the fields were never heard of more, 
how the stalwart landlord replaced them without explanation, how 
his dog-cart came to be waiting at the door, and how everything 
was arranged without the least arrangement for climbing to old 
Carrock's shoulders, and standing on his head. 

Without a word of inquiry, therefore, the Two Idle Apprentices 
drifted out resignedly into a fine, soft, close, drowsy, penetrating 
rain ; got into the landlord's light dog-cart, and rattled off through 
the village for the foot of Carrock. The journey at the outset 
was not remarkable. The Cumberland road went up and down 
like all other roads ; the Cumberland curs burst out from backs of 
cottages and barked like other curs, and the Cumberland peasantry 
stared after the dog-cart amazedly, as long as it was in sight, like 
the rest of their race. The approach to the foot of the mountain 
resembled the approaches to the feet of most other mountains all 
over the world. The cultivation gradually ceased, the trees grew 
gradually rare, the road became gradually rougher, and the sides 
of the mountain looked gradually more and more lofty, and more 
and more difficult to get up. The dog-cart was left at a lonely 
farm-house. The landlord borrowed a large umbrella, and, assum- 
ing in an instant tlie character of the most cheerful and adventu- 
rous of guides, led the way to the ascent. Mr. Goodchild looked 
eagerly at the top of the mountain, and, feeling apparently that he 
was now going to be very lazy indeed, shone all over wonderfully 
to the eye, under the influence of the contentment within and the 
moisture without. Only in the bosom of Mr. Thomas Idle did 
Despondency now hold her gloomy state. He kept it a secret ; 
but he would have given a very handsome sum, when the ascent 
began, to have been back again at the inn. The sides of Carrock 
looked fearfully steep, and the top of Carrock was hidden in mist. 
The rain was falling faster and faster. The knees of Mr. Idle — 
always weak on walking excursions — shivered and shook with fear 
and damp. The wet was already penetrating through the young 
man's outer coat to a brand-new shooting-jacket, for which he had 
reluctantly paid the large sum of two guineas on leaving town ; 
he had no stimulating refreshment about him but a small packet 
of clammy gingerbread nuts ; he had nobody to give him an arm, 
nobody to push him gently behind, nobody to pull him up tenderly 
in front, nobody to speak to who really felt the difficulties of the 
ascent, the dampness of the rain, the denseness of the mist, and 
the unutterable folly of climbing, undriven, up any steep place in 
the world, when there is level ground within reach to walk on 
instead. "Was it for this that Thomas had left London ? London, 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 331 

where there are nice short walks in level public gardens, with 
benches of repose set up at convenient distances for weary travel- 
lers — London, where rugged stone is humanely pounded into little 
lumps for the road, and intelligently shaped into smooth slabs for 
the pavement ! No ! it was not for the laborious ascent of the 
crags of Carrock that Idle had left his native city, and travelled 
to Cumberland. Never did he feel more disastrously convinced 
that he had committed a very grave error in judgment than when 
he found himself standing in the rain at the bottom of a steep 
mountain, and knew that the responsibility rested on his weak 
shoulders of actually getting to the top of it. 

The honest landlord went first, the beaming Goodchild followed, 
the mournful Idle brought up the rear. From time to time, the 
two foremost members of the expedition changed places in the 
order of march ; but the rearguard never altered his position. Up 
the mountain or down the mountain, in the water or out of it, over 
the rocks, through the bogs, skirting the heather, Mr. Thomas Idle 
was always the last, and was always the man who had to be looked 
after and waited for. At first the ascent was delusively easy, the 
sides of the mountain sloped gradually, and the material of which 
they were composed was a soft spongy turf, very tender and pleas- 
ant to walk upon. After a hundred yards or so, however, the ver- 
dant scene and the easy slope disappeared, and the rocks began. 
,Not noble, massive rocks, standing upright, keeping a certain regu- 
larity in their positions, and possessing, now and then, flat tops to 
sit upon, but little, irritating, comfortless rocks, littered about any- 
how by Nature ; treacherous, disheartening rocks of all sorts of 
small shapes and small sizes, bruisers of tender toes and trippers-up 
of wavering feet. When these impediments were passed, heather 
and slough followed. Here the steepness of the ascent was slightly 
mitigated ; and here the exploring party of three turned round to 
look at the view below them. The scene of the moorland and the 
fields was like a feeble water-colour drawing half sponged out. The 
mist was darkening, the rain was thickening, the trees were dotted 
about like spots of faint shadow, the division-lines which mapped 
out the fields were all getting blurred together, and the lonely 
farm-house where the dog-cart had been left, loomed spectral in 
the grey light like the last human dwelling at the end of the habi- 
table world. Was this a sight worth climbing to see 1 Surely — 
surely not ! 

Up again — for the top of Carrock is not reached yet. The land- 
lord, just as good-tempered and obliging as he was at the bottom of 
the mountain. Mr. Goodchild brighter in the eyes and rosier in 
the face than ever ; full of cheerful remarks and apt quotations ; and 



332 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

walking with a springiness of step wonderful to behold. Mr. Idle, 
farther and farther in the rear, with the water squeaking in the 
toes of his boots, with his two-guinea shooting-jacket clinging 
damply to his aching sides, with his overcoat so full of rain, and 
standing out so pyramidically stiff, in consequence, from his shoul- 
ders downwards, that he felt as if he was walking in a gigantic 
extinguisher — the despairing spirit within him representing but too 
aptly the candle that had just been put out. Up and up and up 
again, till a ridge is reached and the outer edge of the mist on the 
summit of Carrock is darkly and drizzlingly near. Is this the top ? 
No, nothing like the top. It is an aggravating peculiarity of all 
mountains, that, although they have only one top when they are 
seen (as they ought always to be seen) from below, they turn out to 
have a perfect eruption of false tops whenever the traveller is suffi- 
ciently ill-advised to go out of his way for the purpose of ascending 
them. Carrock is but a trumpery little mountain of fifteen hundred 
feet, and it presumes to have false tops, and even precipices, as if it 
were Mont Blanc. No matter ; Goodchild enjoys it, and will go on; 
and Idle, who is afraid of being left behind by himself, must follow. 
On entering the edge of the mist, the landlord stops, and says he 
hopes that it will not get any thicker. It is twenty years since he 
last ascended Carrock, and it is barely possible, if the mist increases, 
that the party may be lost on the mountain. Goodchild hears this 
dreadful intimation, and is not in the least impressed by it. He 
marches for the top that is never to be found, as if he was the Wan- 
dering Jew, bound to go on for ever, in defiance of everything. The 
landlord faithfully accompanies him. The two, to the dim eye of 
Idle, far belov.^, look in the exaggerative mist, like a pair of friendly 
giants, mounting the steps of some invisible castle together. Up 
and up, and then down a little, and then up, and then along a strip 
of level ground, and then up again. The wind, a wind unknown 
in the happy valley, blows keen and strong; the rain-mist gets im- 
penetrable ; a dreary little cairn of stones appears. The landlord 
adds one to the heap, first walking all round the cairn as if he were 
about to perform an incantation, then dropping the stone on to the 
top of the heap with the gesture of a magician adding an ingredient 
to a cauldron in full bubble. Goodchild sits down by the cairn as 
if it was his study-table at home; Idle, drenched and panting, 
stands up with his back to the wind, ascertains distinctly that this 
is the top at last, looks round with all the little curiosity that is 
left in him, and gets, in return, a magnificent view of — Nothing! 
The effect of this sublime spectacle on the minds of the explor- 
ing party is a little injured by the nature of the direct conclusion 
to which the sight of it points — the said conclusion being that the 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 333 

mountain mist has actually gathered round them, as the landlord 
feared it would. It now becomes imperatively necessary to settle 
the exact situation of the farm-house in the valley at which the dog- 
cart has been left, before the travellers attempt to descend. While 
the landlord is endeavouring to make this discovery in his own way, 
Mr. Goodchild plunges his hand under his wet coat, draws out a 
little red morocco-case, opens it, and displays to the view of his 
companions a neat pocket-compass. The north is found, the point 
at which the farm-house is situated is settled, and the descent be- 
gins. After a little downward walking, Idle (behind as usual) sees 
his fellow-travellers turn aside sharply — tries to follow them — 
loses them in the mist — is shouted after, waited for, recovered — 
and then finds that a halt has been ordered, partly on his account, 
partly for the purpose of again consulting the compass. 

The point in debate is settled as before between Goodchild and 
the landlord, and the expedition moves on, not down the mountain, 
but marching straight forward round the slope of it. The difiiculty 
of following this new route is acutely felt by Thomas Idle. He 
finds the hardship of walking at all greatly increased by the fatigue 
of moving his feet straight forward along the side of a slope, when 
their natural tendency, at every step, is to turn off at a right angle, 
and go straight down the declivity. Let the reader imagine himself 
to be walking along the roof of a barn, instead of up or down it, 
and he will have an exact idea of the pedestrian difficulty in which 
the travellers had now involved themselves. In ten minutes more 
Idle was lost in the distance again, was shouted for, waited for, re- 
covered as before ; found Goodchild repeating his observation of the 
compass, and remonstrated warmly against the side way route that 
his companions persisted in following. It appeared to the unin- 
structed mind of Thomas that when three men want to get to the 
bottom of a mountain, their business is to walk down it ; and he 
put this view of the case, not only with emphasis, but even with 
some irritability. He was answered from the scientific eminence of 
the compass on which his companions were mounted, that there was 
a frightful chasm somewhere near the foot of Carrock, called The 
Black Arches, into which the travellers were sure to march in the 
mist, if they risked continuing tlie descent from the place where 
they had now halted. Idle received this answer with the silent 
respect which was due to the commanders of the expedition, and 
followed along the roof of the barn, or rather the side of the moun- 
tain, reflecting upon the assurance which he received on starting 
again, that the object of the party was only to gain "a certain 
point," and, this haven attained, to continue the descent afterwards 
until the foot of Carrock was reached. Though quite unexception- 



334 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

able as an abstract form of expression, the phrase " a certain point" 
has the disadvantage of sounding rather vaguely when it is pro- 
nounced on unknown ground, under a canopy of mist much thicker 
than a London fog. Nevertheless, after the compass, this phrase 
was all the clue the party had to hold by, and Idle clung to the 
extreme end of it as hopefully as he could. 

More sideway walking, thicker and thicker mist, all sorts of 
points reached except the " certain point ; " third loss of Idle, third 
shouts for him, third recovery of him, third consultation of compass. 
Mr. Goodchild draws it tenderly from his pocket, and prepares to 
adjust it on a stone. Something falls on the turf — it is the glass. 
Something else drops immediately after — it is the needle. The 
compass is broken, and the exploring party is lost ! 

It is the practice of the English portion of the human race to 
receive all great disasters in dead silence. Mr. Goodchild restored 
the useless compass to his pocket without saying a word, Mr. Idle 
looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at Mr. Idle. There 
was nothing for it now but to go on blindfold, and trust to the 
chapter of chances. Accordingly, the lost travellers moved forward, 
still walking round the slope of the mountain, still desperately re- 
solved to avoid the Black Arches, and to succeed in reaching the 
" certain point." 

A quarter of an hour brought them to the brink of a ravine, at 
the bottom of which there flowed a muddy little stream. Here 
another halt was called, and another consultation took place. The 
landlord, still clinging pertinaciously to the idea of reaching the 
" point," voted for crossing the ravine, and going on round the slope 
of the mountain. Mr. Goodchild, to the great relief of his fellow- 
traveller, took another view of the case, and backed Mr. Idle's 
proposal to descend Carrock at once, at any hazard — the rather as 
the running stream was a sure guide to follow from the mountain 
to the valley. Accordingly, the party descended to the rugged and 
stony banks of the stream ; and here again Thomas lost ground 
sadly, and fell far behind his travelling companions. Not much more 
than six weeks had elapsed since he had sprained one of his ankles, 
and he began to feel this same ankle getting rather weak when he 
found himself among the stones that were strewn about the running 
water. Goodchild and the landlord were getting farther and farther 
ahead of him. He saw them cross the stream and disappear round 
a projection on its banks. He heard them shout the moment after 
as a signal that they had halted and were waiting for him. An- 
swering the shout, he mended his pace, crossed the stream where 
they had crossed it, and was within one step of the opposite bank, 
when his foot slipped on a wet stone, his weak ankle gave a twist 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 335 

outwards, a hot, rending, tearing pain ran through it at the same 
moment, and down fell the idlest of the Two Idle Apprentices, 
crippled in an instant. 

The situation was now, in plain terms, one of absolute danger. 
There lay Mr. Idle writhing with pain, there was the mist as thick 
as ever, there was the landlord as completely lost as the strangers 
whom he was conducting, and there was the compass broken in 
Goodchild's pocket. To leave the wretched Thomas on unknown 
ground was plainly impossible ; and to get him to walk with a 
badly sprained ankle seemed equally out of the question. However, 
Goodchild (brought back by his cry for help) bandaged the ankle 
with a pocket-handkerchief, and assisted by the landlord, raised the 
crippled Apprentice to his legs, offered him a shoulder to lean on, 
and exhorted him for the sake of the whole party to try if he 
could walk. Thomas, assisted by the shoulder on one side, and 
a stick on the other, did try, with what pain and difficulty those 
only can imagine who have sprained an ankle and have had to 
tread on it afterwards. At a pace adapted to the feeble hobbling 
of a newly lamed man, the lost party moved on, perfectly ignorant 
whether they were on the right side of the mountain or the wrong, 
and equally uncertain how long Idle would be able to contend with 
the pain in his ankle, before he gave in altogether and fell down 
again, unable to stir another step. 

Slowly and more slowly, as the clog of crippled Thomas weighed 
heavily and more heavily on the march of the expedition, the lost 
travellers followed the windings of the stream, till they came to a 
faintly marked cart-track, branching off nearly at right angles, to 
the left. After a little consultation it was resolved to follow this 
dim vestige of a road in the hope that it might lead to some farm 
or cottage, at which Idle could be left in safety. It was now get- 
ting on towards the afternoon, and it was fast becoming more than 
doubtful whether the party, delayed in their progress as they now 
were, might not be overtaken by the darkness before the right 
route was found, and be condemned to pass the night on the moun- 
tain, without bit or drop to comfort them, in their wet clothes. 

The cart-track grew fainter and fainter, until it was washed out 
altogether by another little stream, dark, turbulent, and rapid. 
The landlord suggested, judging by the colour of the water, that 
it must be flowing from one of the lead mines in the neighbourhood 
of Carrock ; and the travellers accordingly kept by the stream for 
a little while, in the hope of possibly wandering towards help in 
that way. After walking forward about two hundred yards, they 
came upon a mine indeed, but a mine exhausted and abandoned; 
a dismal, ruinous place, with nothing but the wreck of its works 



336 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

and buildings left to speak for it. Here, there were a few sheep 
feeding. The landlord looked at them earnestly, thought he recog- 
nised the marks on them — then thought he did not — finally gave 
up the sheep in despair — and walked on just as ignorant of the 
whereabouts of the party as ever. 

The march in the dark, literally as well as metaphorically in the 
dark, had now been continued for three-quarters of an hour from 
the time when the crippled Apprentice had met with his accident. 
Mr. Idle, with all the will to conquer the pain in his ankle, and 
to hobble on, found the power rapidly failing him, and felt that 
another ten minutes at most would find him at the end of his last 
physical resources. He had just made up his mind on this point, 
and was about to communicate the dismal result of his reflections 
to his companions, when the mist suddenly brightened, and begun 
to lift straight ahead. In another minute, the landlord, who was in 
advance, proclaimed that he saw a tree. Before long, other trees 
appeared — then a cottage — then a house beyond the cottage, and 
a familiar fine of road rising behind it. Last of all, Carrock itself 
loomed darkly into view, far away to the right hand. The party 
had not only got down the mountain without knowing how, but 
had wandered away from it in the mist, without knowing why — 
away, far down on the very moor by which they had approached 
the base of Carrock that morning. 

The happy lifting of the mist, and the still happier discovery 
that the travellers had groped their way, though by a very rounda- 
bout direction, to within a mile or so of the part of the valley in 
which the farm-house was situated, restored Mr. Idle's sinking 
spirits and reanimated his failing strength. While the landlord 
ran off to get the dog-cart, Thomas was assisted by Goodchild 
to the cottage which had been the first building seen when the 
darkness brightened, and was propped up against the garden wall, 
like an artist's lay figure waiting to be forwarded, until the dog-cart 
should arrive from the farm-house below. In due time — and a very 
long time it seemed to Mr. Idle — the rattle of wheels was heard, 
and the crippled Apprentice was lifted into the seat. As the dog- 
cart was driven back to the inn, the landlord related an anecdote 
which he had just heard at the farm-house, of an unhappy man 
who liad been lost, like his two guests and himself, on Carrock ; who 
had passed the night there alone ; who had been found the next 
morning, " scared and starved ; " and who never went out afterwards, 
except on his way to the grave. Mr. Idle heard this sad story, and 
derived at least one useful impression from it. Bad as the pain in his 
ankle was, he contrived to bear it patiently, for he felt grateful that 
a worse accident had not befallen him in the wilds of Carrock. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 337 



CHAPTER II. 

The dog-cart, with Mr. Thomas Idle and his ankle on the hang- 
ing seat behind, Mr. Francis Goodchild and the Innkeeper in front, 
and the rain in spouts and splashes everywhere, made the best of 
its way back to the little inn ; the broken moor country looking like 
miles upon miles of Pre-Adamite sop, or the ruins of some enor- 
mous jorum of antediluvian toast-and- water. The trees dripped ; 
the eaves of the scattered cottages dripped ; the barren stone walls 
dividing the land, dripped ; the yelping dogs dripped ; carts and 
waggons under ill-roofed penthouses, dripped ; melancholy cocks 
and hens perching on their shafts, or seeking shelter underneath 
them, dripped ; Mr. Goodchild dripped ; Thomas Idle dripped ; the 
Innkeeper dripped ; the mare dripped ; the vast curtains of mist 
and cloud passed before the shadowy forms of the hills, streamed 
water as they were drawn across the landscape. Down such steep 
pitches that the mare seemed to be trotting on her head, and up 
such steep pitches that she seemed to have a supplementary leg in 
her tail, the dog-cart jolted and tilted back to the village. It was 
too wet for the women to look out, it was too wet even for the 
children to look out ; all the doors and windows were closed, and 
the only sign of life or motion was in the rain-punctured puddles. 

Whiskey and oil to Thomas Idle's ankle, and whiskey without 
oil to Francis Goodchild's stomach, produced an agreeable change 
in the systems of both ; soothing Mr. Idle's pain, which was sharp 
before, and sweetening Mr. Goodchild's temper, which was sweet 
before. Portmanteaus being then opened and clothes changed, 
Mr. Goodchild, through having no change of outer garments but 
broadcloth and velvet, suddenly became a magnificent portent in 
the Innkeeper's house, a shining frontispiece to the fashions for the 
month, and a frightful anomaly in the Cumberland village. 

Greatly ashamed of his splendid appearance, the conscious Good- 
child quenched it as much as possible, in the shadow of Thomas 
Idle's ankle, and in a corner of the little covered carriage that 
started with them for Wigton — a most desirable carriage for any 
country, except for its having a flat roof and no sides ; which 
caused the plumps of rain accumulating on the roof to play vigor- 
ous games of bagatelle into the interior all the way, and to score 
immensely. It was comfortable to see how the people coming back 
in open carts from Wigton market made no more of the rain than 
if it were sunshine ; how the Wigton policeman taking a country 
walk of half-a-dozen miles (apparently for pleasure), in resplendent 
uniform, accepted saturation as his normal state ; how clerks and 



338 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

schoolmasters in black loitered along the road without umbrellas, 
getting varnished at every step ; how the Cumberland girls, com- 
ing out to look after the Cumberland cows, shook the rain from 
their eyelashes and laughed it away ; and how the rain continued 
to fall upon all, as it only does fall in hill countries. 

Wigton market was over, and its bare booths were smoking with 
rain all down the street. Mr. Thomas Idle, melodramatically car- 
ried to the inn's first-floor, and laid upon three chairs (he should 
have had the sofa, if there had been one), Mr. Coodchild went to 
the window to take an observation of Wigton, and report what he 
saw to his disabled companion. 

" Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle. " What 
do you see from the turret ? " 

"I see," said Brother Francis, "what I hope and beheve to be 
one of the most dismal places ever seen by eyes. I see the houses 
with their roofs of dull black, their stained fronts, and their dark- 
rimmed windows, looking as if they were all in mourning. As 
every little puff of wind comes down the street, I see a perfect 
train of rain let off along the wooden stalls in the market-place and 
exploded against me. I see a very big gas lamp in the centre 
which I know, by a secret instinct, will not be lighted to-night. 
I see a pump, with a trivet underneath its spout whereon to stand 
the vessels that are brought to be filled with water. I see a man 
come to pump, and he pumps very hard, but no water follows, and 
he strolls empty away." 

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, "what 
more do you see from the turret, besides the man and the pump, 
and the trivet and the houses all in mourning and the rain?" 

"I see," said Brother Francis, "one, two, three, four, five, linen- 
drapers' shops in front of me. I see a linen-draper's shop next 
door to the right — and there are five more linen-drapers' shops 
down the corner to the left. Eleven homicidal linen-drapers' shops 
within a short stone's throw, each with its hands at the throats of 
all the rest ! Over the small first-floor of one of these linen-drapers' 
shops appears the wonderful inscription. Bank." 

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, "what 
more do you see from the turret, besides the eleven homicidal linen- 
drapers' shops, and the wonderful inscription, ' Bank ' on the small 
first-floor, and the man and the pump and the trivet and the houses 
all in mourning and the rain ? " 

"I see," said Brother Francis, "the depository for Christian 
Knowledge, and through the dark vapour I think I again make 
out Mr. Spurgeon looming heavily. Her Majesty the Queen, God 
bless her, printed in colours, I am sure I see. I see the Illustrated 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 339 

London Neivs of several years ago, and I see a sweetmeat shop — 
which the proprietor calls a ' Salt Warehouse ' — with one small 
female child in a cotton bonnet looking in on tip-toe, oblivious of 
rain. And I see a watchmaker's with only three great pale watches 
of a dull metal hanging in his window, each in a separate pane." 

" Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, "Avhat 
more do you see of Wigton, besides these objects, and the man and 
the pump and the trivet and the houses all in mourning and the 
rain?" 

"I see nothing more," said Brother Francis, " and there is noth- 
ing more to see, except the curlpaper bill of the theatre, which was 
opened and shut last week (the manager's family played all the 
parts), and the short, square, chinky omnibus that goes to the 
railway, and leads too rattling a life over the stones to hold to- 
gether long. yes ! Now, I see two men with their hands in 
their pockets and their backs towards me." 

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, "what 
do you make out from the turret, of the expression of the tw^o 
men with their hands in their pockets and their backs towards 
you 1 " 

"They are mysterious men," said Brother Francis, "with in- 
scrutable backs. They keep their backs towards me with persist- 
ency. If one turns an inch in any direction, the other turns an 
inch in the same direction, and no more. They turn very stiffly, 
on a very little pivot, in the middle of the market-place. Their 
appearance is partly of a mining, partly of a ploughing, partly of a 
stable, character. They are looking at nothing — very hard. Their 
backs are slouched, and their legs are curved with much standing 
about. Their pockets are loose and dog's-eared, on account of their 
hands being always in them. They stand to be rained upon, with- 
out any movement of impatience or dissatisfaction, and they keep 
so close together that an elbow of each jostles an elbow of the 
other, but they never speak. They spit at times, but speak not. 
I see it growing darker and darker, and still I see them, sole visible 
population of the place, standing to be rained upon with their backs 
towards me, and looking at nothing very hard." 

" Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, " before 
you draw down the blind of the turret and come in to have your 
head scorched by the hot gas, see if you can, and impart to me, 
something of the expression of those two amazing men." 

" The murky shadows," said Francis Goodchild, " are gathering 
fast ; and the wings of evening, and the wings of coal, are folding 
over Wigton. Still, they look at nothing very hard, with their 
backs towards me. Ah ! Now, they turn, and I see " 



340 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried Thomas Idle, "tell 
me quickly what you see of the two men of Wigton ! " 

"I see," said Francis Goodchild, " that they have no expression 
at all. And now the town goes to sleep, undazzled by the large 
unlighted lamp in the market-place ; and let no man wake it." 

At the close of the next day's journey, Mr. Thomas Idle's ankle 
became much swollen and inflamed. There are reasons which will 
presently explain themselves for not publicly indicating the exact 
direction in which that journey lay, or the place in which it ended. 
It was a long day's shaking of Thomas Idle over the rough roads, 
and a long day's getting out and going on before the horses, and 
fagging up hills, and scouring down hills, on the part of Mr. Good- 
child, who in the fatigues of such labours congratulated himself on 
attaining a high point of idleness. It was at a little town, still in 
Cumberland, that they halted for the night — a very little town, 
with the purple and brown moor close upon its one street; a 
curious little ancient market-cross set up in the midst of it ; and 
the town itself looking much as if it were a collection of great 
stones piled on end by the Druids long ago, which a few recluse 
people had since hollowed out for habitations. 

" Is there a doctor here 1 " asked Mr. Goodchild, on his knee, of 
the motherly landlady of the little Inn : stopping in his examina- 
tion of Mr. Idle's ankle, with the aid of a candle. 

" Ey, my word ! " said the landlady, glancing doubtfully at the 
ankle for herself; " there's Doctor Speddie." 

" Is he a good Doctor?" 

" Ey ! " said the landlady, "I ca' him so. A' cooms efther 
nae doctor that I ken. Mair nor which, a's just the doctor 
heer." 

" Do you think he is at home 1 " 

Her reply was, " Gang awa', Jock, and bring him." 

Jock, a white-headed boy, who, under pretence of stirring up 
some bay salt in a basin of water for the laving of this unfortunate 
ankle, had greatly enjoyed himself for the last ten minutes in splash- 
ing the carpet, set off promptly. A very few minutes had elapsed 
when he showed the Doctor in, by tumbling against the door before 
him and bursting it open with his head. 

" Gently, Jock, gently," said the Doctor as he advanced with a 
quiet step. "Gentlemen, a good evening. I am sorry that my 
presence is required here. A slight accident, I hope 1 A slip and 
a fall ? Yes, yes, yes. Carrock, indeed ? Hah ! Does that pain 
you, sir 1 No doubt, it does. It is the great connecting ligament 
here, you see, that has been badly strained. Time and rest, sir ! 
They are often the recipe in greater cases," with a slight sigh, "and 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 341 

often the recipe in small. I can send a lotion to relieve you, but 
we must leave the cure to time and rest." 

This he said, holding Idle's foot on his knee between his two 
hands, as he sat over against him. He had touched it tenderly 
and skilfully in explanation of what he said, and, when his careful 
examination was completed, softly returned it to its former hori- 
zontal position on a chair. 

He spoke with a little irresolution whenever he began, but 
afterwards fluently. He was a tall, thin, large-boned, old gentle- 
man, with an appearance at first sight of being hard-featured ; but, 
at a second glance, the mild expression of his face and some partic- 
ular touches of sweetness and patience about his mouth corrected 
this impression and assigned his long professional rides, by day and 
night, in the bleak hill-weather, as the true cause of that appear- 
ance. He stooped very little, though past seventy and very grey. 
His dress was more like that of a clergyman than a country doctor, 
being a plain black suit, and a plain white neck-kerchief tied be- 
hind like a band. His black was the worse for wear, and there were 
darns in liis coat, and his linen was a little frayed at the hems and 
edges. He might have been poor — it was likely enough in that 
out-of-the-way spot — or he might have been a little self-forgetful 
and eccentric. Any one could have seen directly, that he had neither 
wife nor child at home. He had a scholarly air with him, and 
that kind of considerate humanity towards others which claimed a 
gentle consideration for himself. Mr. Goodchild made this study 
of him while he was examining the limb, and as he laid it down. 
Mr. Goodchild wishes to add that he considers it a very good like- 
ness. 

It came out in the course of a little conversation, that Doctor 
Speddie was acquainted with some friends of Thomas Idle's, and 
had, when a young man, passed some years in Thomas Idle's birth- 
place on the other side of England. Certain idle labours, the fruit 
of Mr. Goodchild's apprenticeship, also happened to be well known 
to him. The lazy travellers were thus placed on a more intimate 
footing with the Doctor than the casual circumstances of the meet- 
ing would of themselves have established ; and when Doctor Speddie 
rose to go home, remarking that he would send his assistant with 
the lotion, Francis Goodchild said that was unnecessary, for, by the 
Doctor's leave, he would accompany him, and bring it back. (Hav- 
ing done nothing to fatigue himself for a full quarter of an hour, 
Francis began to fear that he was not in a state of idleness.) 

Doctor Speddie politely assented to the proposition of Francis 
Goodchild, "as it would give him the pleasure of enjoying a few 
more minutes of Mr. Goodchild's society than he could otherwise 



342 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

have hoped for," and tliey went out together into the village street. 
The rain had nearly ceased, the clouds had broken before a cool 
wind from the north-east, and stars were shining from the peaceful 
heights beyond them. 

Doctor Speddie's house was the last house in the place. Beyond 
it, lay the moor, all dark and lonesome. The wind moaned in a 
low, dull, shivering manner round the little garden, like a houseless 
creature that knew the winter was coming. It was exceedingly 
wild and solitary. " Roses," said the Doctor, when Goodchild 
touched some wet leaves overhanging the stone porch ; " but they 
get cut to pieces." 

The Doctor opened the door with a key he carried, and led the 
way into a low but pretty ample hall with rooms on either side. 
The door of one of these stood open, and the Doctor entered it, 
with a word of welcome to his guest. It, too, was a low room, 
half surgery and half parlour, with shelves of books and bottles 
against the walls, which were of a very dark hue. There was a 
fire in the grate, the night being damp and chill. Leaning against 
the chimney-piece looking down into it, stood the Doctor's 
Assistant. 

A man of a most remarkable appearance. Much older than Mr. 
Goodchild had expected, for he was at least two-and-fifty ; but, 
that was nothing. What was startling in him was his remarkable 
paleness. His large black eyes, his sunken cheeks, his long and 
heavy iron-grey hair, his wasted hands, and even the attenuation 
of his figure, were at first forgotten in his extraordinary pallor. 
There was no vestige of colour in the man. When he turned his 
face, Francis Goodchild started as if a stone figure had looked 
round at him. 

" Mr. Lorn," said the Doctor. " Mr. Goodchild." 

The Assistant, in a distraught way — as if he had forgotten 
something — as if he had forgotten everything, even to his own 
name and himself — acknowledged the visitor's presence, and 
stepped further back into the shadow of the wall behind him. 
But, he was so pale that his face stood out in relief against the 
dark wall, and really could not be hidden so. 

" Mr. Goodchild's friend has met with an accident. Lorn," said 
Doctor Speddie. " We want the lotion for a bad sprain." 

A pause. 

"My dear fellow, you are more than usually absent to-night. 
The lotion for a bad sprain." 

"Ah! yes! Directly." 

He was evidently relieved to turn away, and to take his white 
face and his wild eyes to a table in a recess among the bottles. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 343 

But, though he stood there, compounding the lotion with his back 
towards them, Goodchild could not, for many moments, withdraw 
his gaze from the man. When he at length did so, he found the 
Doctor observing him, with some trouble in his face. "He is 
absent," explained the Doctor, in a low voice. "Always absent. 
Very absent." 

"Is he ill?" 

" No, not ill." 

" Unhappy ? " 

"I have my suspicions that he was," assented the Doctor, 
" once." 

Francis Goodchild could not but observe that the Doctor accom- 
panied these words with a benignant and protecting glance at their 
subject, in which there was much of the expression with which an 
attached father might have looked at a heavily afflicted son. Yet, 
that they were not father and son must have been plain to most 
eyes. The Assistant, on the other hand, turning presently to ask 
the Doctor some question, looked at him with a wan smile as if he 
were his whole reliance and sustainment in life. 

It was in vain for the Doctor in his easy-chair, to try to lead 
the mind of Mr. Goodchild in the opposite easy-chair, away from 
what was before him. Let Mr. Goodchild do what he would to 
follow the Doctor, his eyes and thoughts reverted to the Assistant. 
The Doctor soon perceived it, and, after falling silent, and musing 
in a little perplexity, said : 

" Lorn ! " 

"My dear Doctor." 

" Would you go to the Inn, and apply that lotion ? You will show 
the best way of applying it, far better than Mr. Goodchild can." 

" With pleasure." 

The Assistant took his hat, and passed like a shadow to the 
door. 

" Lorn ! " said the Doctor, calling after him. 

He returned. 

" Mr. Goodchild will keep me company till you come home. 
Don't hurry. Excuse my calling you back." 

"It is not," said the Assistant, with his former smile, "the 
first time you have called me back, dear Doctor." With those 
words he went away. 

" Mr. Goodchild," said Doctor Speddie, in a low voice, and with 
his former troubled expression of face, " I have seen that your 
attention has been concentrated on my friend." 

" He fascinates me. I must apologise to you, but he has quite 
bewildered and mastered me." 



344 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

"I find that a lonely existence and a long secret," said the Doc- 
tor, drawing his chair a little nearer to Mr. Goodchild's, "become 
in the course of time very heavy. I will tell you something. You 
may make what use you will of it, under fictitious names. I know 
I may trust you. I am the more inclined to confidence to-night, 
through having been unexpectedly led back, by the current of 
our conversation at the Inn, to scenes in my early life. Will you 
please to draw a little hearer ? " 

Mr. Goodchild drew a little nearer, and the Doctor went on 
thus : speaking, for the most part, in so cautious a voice, that the 
wind, though it was far from high, occasionally got the better of 
him. 

When this present nineteenth century was younger by a good 
many years than it is now, a certain friend of mine, named Arthur 
Holliday, happened to arrive in the town of Doncaster, exactly in 
the middle of a race- week, or, in other words, in the middle of the 
month of September. He was one of those reckless, rattle-pated, 
open-hearted, and open-mouthed young gentlemen, who possess the 
gift of familiarity in its highest perfection, and who scramble care- 
lessly along the journey of life making friends, as the phrase is, 
wherever they go. His father was a rich manufacturer, and had 
bought landed property enough in one of the midland counties to 
make all the born squires in his neighbourhood thoroughly envious 
of him. Arthur was his only son, possessor in prospect of the 
great estate and the great business after his father's death ; well 
supplied with money, and not too rigidly looked after, during his 
father's lifetime. Report, or scandal, whichever you please, said 
that the old gentleman had been rather wild in his youthful days, 
and that, unlike most parents, he was not disposed to be violently 
indignant when he found that his son took after him. This may 
be true or not. I myself only knew the elder Mr. Holliday when 
he was getting on in years; and then he was as quiet and as 
respectable a gentleman as ever I met with. 

Well, one September, as I told you, young Arthur comes to 
Doncaster, having decided all of a sudden, in his hare-brained way, 
that he would go to the races. He did not reach tlie town till 
towards the close of the evening, and he went at once to see about 
his dinner and bed at the principal hotel. Dinner they were ready 
enough to give him ; but as for a bed, they laughed when he men- 
tioned it. In the race-week at Doncaster, it is no uncommon thing 
for visitors who have not bespoken apartments, to pass the night in 
their carriages at the inn doors. As for the lower sort of stran- 
gers, I myself have often seen them, at that full time, sleeping out 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 345 

on the doorsteps for want of a covered place to creep under. Rich 
as he was, Arthur's chance of getting a night's lodging (seeing that 
he had not written beforehand to secure one) was more than doubt- 
ful. He tried the second hotel, and the third hotel, and two of the 
inferior inns after that ; and was met everywhere by the same form 
of answer. No accommodation for the night of any sort was left. 
All the bright golden sovereigns in his pocket would not buy him 
a bed at Doncaster in the race-week. 

To a young fellow of Arthur's temperament, the novelty of being 
turned away into the street, like a penniless vagabond, at every house 
where he asked for a lodging, presented itself in the light of a new 
and highly amusing piece of experience. He went on, with his 
carpet-bag in his hand, applying for a bed at every place of enter- 
tainment for travellers that he could find in Doncaster, until he 
wandered into the outskirts of the town. By this time, the last 
glimmer of twilight had faded out, the moon was rising dimly in a 
mist, the wind was getting cold, the clouds were gathering heavily, 
and there was every prospect that it was soon going to rain. 

The look of the night had rather a lowering effect on young 
HoUiday's good spirits. He began to contemplate the houseless 
situation in which he was placed, from the serious rather than the 
humorous point of view ; and he looked about him, for another 
public-house to inquire at, with something very like downright 
anxiety in his mind on the subject of a lodging for the night. The 
suburban part of the town towards which he had now strayed was 
hardly lighted at all, and he could see nothing of the houses as he 
passed them, except that they got progressively smaller and dirtier, 
the farther he went. Down the winding road before him shone 
the dull gleam of an oil lamp, the one faint, lonely light that 
struggled ineffectually with the foggy darkness all round him. He 
resolved to go on as far as this lamp, and then, if it showed him 
nothing in the shape of an Inn, to return to the central part of the 
town and to try if he could not at least secure a chair to sit down 
on, through the night, at one of the principal Hotels. 

As he got near the lamp, he heard voices; and, walking close 
under it, found that it lighted the entrance to a narrow court, on 
the wall of which was painted a long hand in faded flesh-colour, 
pointing with a lean fore-finger, to this inscription : — 

THE TWO ROBINS. 

Arthur turned into the court without hesitation, to see what 
The Two Robins could do for him. Four or five men were stand- 
ing together round the door of the house which was at the bottom 



346 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

of the court, facing the entrance from the street. The men were 
all listening to one other man, better dressed than the rest, who 
was telling his audience something, in a low voice, in which they 
were apparently very much interested. 

On entering the passage, Arthur was passed by a stranger with 
a knapsack in his hand, who was evidently leaving the house. 

" No," said the traveller with the knapsack, turning round and 
addressing himself cheerfully to a fat, sly-looking, bald-headed man, 
with a dirty white apron on, who had followed him down the pas- 
sage. "No, Mr. Landlord, I am not easily scared by trifles; but, 
I don't mind confessing that I can't quite stand that.''' 

It occurred to young Holliday, the moment he heard these 
words, that the stranger had been asked an exorbitant price for 
a bed at The Two Robins ; and that he was unable or unwilling 
to pay it. The moment his back was turned, Arthur, comfortably 
conscious of his own well-filled pockets, addressed himself in a 
great hurry, for fear any other benighted traveller should slip in 
and forestall him, to the sly-looking landlord with the dirty apron 
and the bald head. 

" If you have got a bed to let," he said, " and if that gentleman 
who has just gone out won't pay your price for it, I will." 

The sly landlord looked hard at Arthur. 

" Will you, sir?" he asked, in a meditative, doubtful way. 

"Name your price," said young Holliday, thinking that the 
landlord's hesitation sprang from some boorish distrust of him. 
" Name your price, and I'll give you the money at once if you 
like." 

" Are you game for five shillings 1 " inquired the landlord, rub- 
bing his stubbly double chin, and looking up thoughtfully at the 
ceiling above him. 

Arthur nearly laughed in the man's face ; but thinking it pru- 
dent to control himself, off'ered the five shillings as seriously as he 
could. The sly landlord held out his hand, then suddenly drew 
it back again. 

"You're acting all fair and above-board by me," he said : "and, 
before I take your money, I'll do the same by you. Look here, 
this is how it stands. You can have a bed all to yourself for five 
shillings ; but you can't have more than a half-share of the room 
it stands in. Do you see what I mean, young gentleman 1 " 

"Of course I do," returned Arthur, a little irritably. "You 
mean that it is a double-bedded room, and that one of the beds 
is occupied ? " 

The la.ndlord nodded his head, and rubbed his double chin 
harder than ever. Arthur hesitated, and mechanically moved back 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 347 

a step or two towards the door. The idea of sleeping in the same 
room with a total stranger, did not present an attractive prospect 
to him. He felt more than half-inclined to drop his five shillings 
into his pocket, and to go out into the street once more. 

" Is it yes, or no?" asked the landlord. "Settle it as quick as 
you can, because there's lots of people wanting a bed at Doncaster 
to-night, besides you." 

Arthur looked towards the court, and heard the rain falling 
heavily in the street outside. He thought he would ask a question 
or two before he rashly decided on leaving the shelter of The Two 
Robins. 

" What sort of a man is it who has got the other bed 1 " he 
inquired. "Is he a gentleman? I mean, is he a quiet, well- 
behaved person ? " 

" The quietest man I ever came across," said the landlord, rub- 
bing his fat hands stealthily one over the other. " As sober as 
a judge, and as regular as clock-work in his habits. It hasn't 
struck nine, not ten minutes ago, and he's in his bed already. I 
don't know whether that comes up to your notion of a quiet man : 
it goes a long way ahead of mine, I can tell you." 

"Is he asleep, do you think ? " asked Arthur. 

"I know he's asleep," returned the landlord. "'And what's 
more, he's gone off so fast, that I'll warrant you don't wake him. 
This way, sir," said the landlord, speaking over young Holliday's 
shoulder, as if he was addressing some new guest who was ap- 
proaching the house. 

" Here you are," said Arthur, determined to be beforehand 
with the stranger, whoever he might be. "I'll take the bed." 
And he handed the five shillings to the landlord, who nodded, 
dropped the money carelessly into his waistcoat-pocket, and lighted 
the candle. 

"Come up and see the room," said the host of The Two 
Robins, leading the way to the staircase quite briskly, considering 
how fat he was. 

They mounted to the second-floor of the house. The landlord 
half opened a door, fronting the landing, then stopped, and turned 
round to Arthur. 

" It's a fair bargain, mind, on my side as well as on yours," he 
said. "You give me five shillings, I give you in return a clean, 
comfortable bed ; and I warrant, beforehand, that you won't be 
interfered with, or annoyed in any way, by the man who sleeps in 
the same room as you." Saying those words, he looked hard, for 
a moment, in young Holliday's face, and then led the way into the 
room. 



348 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would be. 
The two beds stood parallel with each other — a space of about 
six feet intervening between them. They were both of the same 
medium size, and both had the same plain white curtains, made to 
draw, if necessary, all round them. The occupied bed was the bed 
nearest the window. The curtains were all drawn round this, ex- 
cept the half curtain at the bottom, on the side of the bed farthest 
from the window. Arthur saw the feet of the sleeping man rais- 
ing the scanty clothes into a sharp little eminence, as if he was 
lying flat on his back. He took the candle, and advanced softly 
to draw the curtain — stopped half way, and listened for a moment 
— then turned to the landlord. 

"He's a very quiet sleeper," said Arthur. 

"Yes," said the landlord, "very quiet." 

Young Holliday advanced with the candle, and looked in at the 
man cautiously. 

" How pale he is ! " said Arthur. 

"Yes," returned the landlord, "pale enough, isn't he?" 

Arthur looked closer at the man. The bed-clothes were drawn 
up to his chin, and they lay perfectly still over the region of 
his chest. Surprised and vaguely startled, as he noticed this, 
Arthur stooped down closer over the stranger ; looked at his ashy, 
parted lips ; listened breathlessly for an instant ; looked again 
at the strangely still face, and the motionless lips and chest; 
and turned round suddenly on the landlord, with his own cheeks 
as pale for the moment as the hollow cheeks of the man on 
the bed. 

" Come here," he whispered, under his breath. " Come here, 
for God's sake ! The man's not asleep — he is dead ! " 

"You have found that out sooner than I thought you would," 
said the landlord composedly. " Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He 
died at five o'clock to-day." 

" How did he die 1 Who is he 1 " asked Arthur, staggered, for 
a moment, by the audacious coolness of the answer. 

"As to who is he," rejoined the landlord, " I know no more 
about him than you do. There are his books and letters and 
things, all sealed up in that brown-paper parcel, for the Coroner's 
inquest to open to-morrow or next day. He's been here a week, 
paying his way fairly enough, and stopping in-doors, for the most 
part, as if he was ailing. My girl brought him up his tea at five 
to-day ; and as he was pouring of it out, he fell down in a faint, or 
a fit, or a compound of both, for anything I know. We could not 
bring him to — and I said he was dead. And the doctor couldn't 
bring him to — and the doctor said he was dead. And there he 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 349 

is. And the Coroner's inquest's coming as soon as it can. And 
that's as much as I know about it." 

Arthur held the candle close to the man's lips. The flame stiU 
burnt straight up, as steadily as before. There was a moment of 
silence ; and the rain pattered drearily through it against the panes 
of the window. 

" If you haven't got nothing more to say to me," continued the 
landlord, " I suppose I may go. You don't expect your five shil- 
lings back, do you 1 There's the bed I promised you, clean and 
comfortable. There's the man I w^arranted not to disturb you, 
quiet in this world for ever. If you're frightened to stop alone 
with him, that's not my look-out. I've kept my part of the bar- 
gain, and I mean to keep the money. I'm not Yorkshire, myself, 
young gentleman ; but I've lived long enough in these parts to have 
my wits sharpened ; and I shouldn't wonder if you found out the 
way to brighten up yours, next time you come amongst us." With 
these words, the landlord turned towards the door, and laughed to 
himself softly, in high satisfaction at his own sharpness. 

Startled and shocked as he was, Arthur had by this time suffi- 
ciently recovered himself to feel indignant at the trick that had 
been played on him, and at the insolent manner in which the land- 
lord exulted in it. 

"Don't laugh," he said sharply, "till you are quite sure you 
have got the laugh against me. You shan't have the five shillings 
for nothing, my man. I'll keep the bed." 

"Will you?" said the landlord. "Then I wish you a good 
night's rest." With that brief farewell, he went out, and shut the 
door after him. 

A good night's rest ! The words had hardly been spoken, the 
door had hardly been closed, before Arthur half repented the hasty 
words that had just escaped him. Though not naturally over- 
sensitive, and not wanting in courage of the moral as well as the 
physical sort, the presence of the dead man had an instantaneously 
chilling effect on his mind when he found himself alone in the 
room — alone, and bound by his own rash words to stay there till 
the next morning. An older man would have thought nothing of 
those words, and would have acted, without reference to them, as 
his calmer sense suggested. But Arthur was too young to treat 
the ridicule, even of his inferiors, with contempt — too young not 
to fear the momentary humiliation of falsifying his own foolish 
boast, more than he feared the trial of watching out the long night 
in the same chamber with the dead. 

"It is but a few hours," he thought to himself, "and I can get 
away the first thing in the morning." 



350 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES 

He was looking towards the occupied bed as that idea passed 
through his mind, and the sharp angular eminence made in the 
clothes by the dead man's upturned feet again caught his eye. He 
advanced and drew the curtains, purposely abstaining, as he did so, 
from looking at the face of the corpse, lest he might unnerve him- 
self at the outset by fastening some ghastly impression of it on his 
mind. He drew the curtain very gently, and sighed involuntarily 
as he closed it. "Poor fellow," he said, almost as sadly as if he 
had known the man. "Ah, poor fellow ! " 

He went next to the window. The night was black, and he 
could see nothing from it. The rain still pattered heavily against 
the glass. He inferred, from hearing it, that the window was at 
the back of the house ; remembering that the front was sheltered 
from the weather by the court and the buildings over it. 

While he was still standing at the window — for even the dreary 
rain was a relief, because of the sound it made ; a relief, also, be- 
cause it moved, and had some faint suggestion, in consequence, of 
life and companionship in it — - while he was standing at the win- 
dow, and looking vacantly into the black darkness outside, he heard 
a distant church-clock strike ten. Only ten ! How was he to pass 
the time till the house was astir the next morning ? 

Under any other circumstances, he would have gone down to the 
public-house parlour, would have called for his grog, and would 
have laughed and talked with the company assembled as familiarly 
as if he had known them all his life. But the very thought of 
whiling away the time in this manner was distasteful to him. 
The new situation in which he was placed seemed to have altered 
him to himself already. Thus far, his life had been the common, 
trifling, prosaic, surface-life of a prosperous young man, with no 
troubles to conquer, and no trials to face. He had lost no rela- 
tion whom he loved, no friend whom he treasured. Till this night, 
what share he had of the immortal inheritance that is divided 
amongst us all, had lain dormant within him. Till this night, 
Death and he had not once met, even in thought. 

He took a few turns up and down the room — then stopped. 
The noise made by his boots on the poorly carpeted floor, jarred on 
his ear. He hesitated a little, and ended by taking the boots off", 
and walking backwards and forwards noiselessly. All desire to 
sleep or to rest had left him. The bare thought of lying down 
on the unoccupied bed instantly drew the picture on his mind of 
a dreadful mimicry of the position of the dead man. Who was 
he ? What was the story of his past life ? Poor he must have 
been, or he would not have stopped at such a place as The Two 
Robins Inn — and weakened, probably, by long illness, or he could 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 351 

hardly have died in the manner in which the landlord had de- 
scribed. Poor, ill, lonely, — dead in a strange place ; dead, with 
nobody but a stranger to pity him. A sad story : truly, on the 
mere face of it, a very sad story. 

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he had 
stopped insensibly at the window, close to which stood the foot 
of the bed with the closed curtains. At first he looked at it ab- 
sently ; then he became conscious that his eyes were fixed on it ; 
and then, a perverse desire took possession of him to do the very 
thing which he had resolved not to do, up to this time — to look 
at the dead man. 

He stretched out his hand towards the curtains ; but checked 
himself in the very act of undrawing them, turned his back sharply 
on the bed, and walked towards the chimney-piece, to see what 
things were placed on it, and to try if he could keep the dead man 
out of his mind in that way. 

There was a pewter inkstand on the chimney-piece, with some 
mildewed remains of ink in the bottle. There were two coarse 
china ornaments of the commonest kind ; and there was a square of 
embossed card, dirty and fly-blown, with a collection of wretched 
riddles printed on it, in all sorts of zig-zag directions, and in vari- 
ously coloured inks. He took the card, and went away, to read it, 
to the table on which the candle was placed ; sitting down, with his 
back resolutely turned to the curtained bed. 

He read the first riddle, the second, the third, all in one corner 
of the card — then turned it round impatiently to look at another. 
Before he could begin reading the riddles printed here, the sound of 
the church-clock stopped him. Eleven. He had got through an 
hour of the time, in the room with the dead man. 

Once more he looked at the card. It was not easy to make out 
the letters printed on it, in consequence of the dimness of the light 
which the landlord had left him — a common tallow candle, fur- 
nished with a pair of heavy old-fashioned steel snufiers. Up to 
this time, his mind had been too much occupied to think of the 
light. He had left the v/ick of the candle unsnuffed, till it had 
risen higher than the flame, and had burnt into an odd penthouse 
shape at the top, from which morsels of the charred cotton fell off", 
from time to time, in little flakes. He took up the snuffers now, 
and trimmed the wick. The light brightened directly, and the 
room became less dismal. 

Again he turned to the riddles ; reading them doggedly and reso- 
lutely, now in one corner of the card, now in another. All his ef- 
forts, however, could not fix his attention on them. He pursued 
his occupation mechanically, deriving no sort of impression from 



352 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

what he was reading. It was as if a shadow from the curtained 
bed had got between his mind and the gaily printed letters — a 
shadow that nothing could dispel. At last, he gave up the strug- 
gle, and threw the card from him impatiently, and took to walking 
softly up and down the room again. 

The dead man, the dead man, the hidden dead man on the bed ! 
There was the one persistent idea still haunting him. Hidden? 
Was it only the body being there, or was it the body being there, 
concealed, that was preying on his mind ? He stopped at the win- 
dow, with that doubt in him ; once more listening to the pattering 
rain, once more looking out into the black darkness. 

Still the dead man ! The darkness forced his mind back upon 
itself, and set his memory at work, reviving, with a painfully vivid 
distinctness the momentary impression it had received from the 
first sight of the corpse. Before long the face seemed to be hover- 
ing out in the middle of the darkness, confronting him through the 
window, with the paleness whiter, with the dreadful dull line of 
light between the imperfectly closed eyelids broader than he had 
seen it — with the parted lips slowly dropping farther and farther 
away from each other — with the features growing larger and mov- 
ing closer, till they seemed to fill the window and to silence the 
rain, and to shut out the night. 

The sound of a voice, shouting below-stairs, woke him suddenly 
from the dream of his own distempered fancy. He recognised it as 
the voice of the landlord. " Shut up at twelve, Ben," he heard it 
say. " I'm off to bed." 

He wiped away the damp that had gathered on his forehead, 
reasoned with himself for a little while, and resolved to shake his 
mind free of the ghastly counterfeit which still clung to it, by forc- 
ing himself to confront, if it was only for a moment, the solemn 
reality. Without allowing himself an instant to hesitate, he parted 
the curtains at the foot of the bed, and looked through. 

There was a sad, peaceful, white face, with the awful mystery of 
stillness on it, laid back upon the pillow\ No stir, no change there ! 
He only looked at it for a moment before he closed the curtains 
again — but that moment steadied him, calmed him, restored him 
— mind and body — to himself. 

He returned to his old occupation of walking up and down the 
room; persevering in it, this time, till the clock struck again. 
Twelve. 

As the sound of the clock-bell died away, it was succeeded by 
the confused noise, down-stairs, of the drinkers in the tap-room leav- 
ing the house. The next sound, after an interval of silence, was 
caused by the barring of the door, and the closing of the shutters, 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 353 

at the back of the Inn. Then the silence followed again, and was 
disturbed no more. 

He was alone now — absolutely, utterly, alone with the dead 
man, till the next morning. 

The wick of the candle wanted trimming again. He took up 
the snuffers — but paused suddenly on the very point of using them, 
and looked attentively at the candle — then back, over his shoulder, 
at the curtained bed — then again at the candle. It had been 
lighted, for the first time, to show him the way up-stairs, and three 
parts of it, at least, were already consumed. In another hour it 
would be burnt out. In another hour — unless he called at once 
to the man who had shut up the Inn, for a fresh candle — he 
would be left in the dark. 

Strongly as his mind had been affected since he had entered the 
room, his unreasonable dread of encountering ridicule, and of expos- 
ing his courage to suspicion, had not altogether lost its influence 
over him, even yet. He lingered irresolutely by the table, waiting 
till he could prevail on himself to open the door, and call, from the 
landing, to the man who had shut up the Inn. In his present 
hesitating frame of mind, it was a kind of relief to gain a few mo- 
ments only by engaging in the trifling occupation of snuffing the 
candle. His hand trembled a little, and the snuffers were heavy 
and awkward to use. When he closed them on the wick, he closed 
them a hair's breadth too low. In an instant the candle was out, 
and the room was plunged in pitch darkness. 

The one impression which the absence of light immediately pro- 
duced on his mind, was distrust of the curtained bed — distrust 
which shaped itself into no distinct idea, but which was powerful 
enough, in its very vagueness, to bind him down to his chair, to 
make his heart beat fast, and to set him listening intently. No 
sound stirred in the room but the familiar sound of the rain against 
the window, louder and sharper now than he had heard it yet. 

Still the vague distrust, the inexpressible dread possessed him, 
and kept him to his chair. He had put his carpet-bag on the table, 
when he first entered the room ; and he now took the key from 
his pocket, reached out his hand softly, opened the bag, and groped 
in it for his travelling writing-case, in which he knew that there 
was a small store of matches. When he had got one of the matches, 
he waited before he struck it on the coarse wooden table, and listened 
intently again, without knowing why. Still there was no sound 
in the room but the steady, ceaseless, rattling sound of the rain. 

He lighted the candle again, without another moment of delay ; 
and, on the instant of its burning up, the first object in the room 
that his eyes sought for was the curtained bed. 

2a 



354 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

Just before the light had been put out, he had looked in that 
direction, and had seen no change, no disarrangement of any sort, 
in the folds of the closely drawn curtains. 

When he looked at the bed, now, he saw, hanging over the side 
of it, a long white hand. 

It lay perfectly motionless, midway on the side of the bed, where 
the curtain at the head and the curtain at the foot met. Nothing 
more was visible. The clinging curtains hid everything but the 
long white hand. 

He stood looking at it unable to stir, unable to call out ; feeling 
nothing, knowing nothing, every faculty he possessed gathered up 
and lost in the one seeing faculty. How long that first panic held 
him he never could tell afterwards. It might have been only for a 
moment ; it might have been for many minutes together. How 
he got to the bed — whether he ran to it headlong, or whether 
he approached it slowly — how he wrought himself up to unclose 
the curtains and look in, he never has remembered, and never will 
remember to his dying day. It is enough that he did go to the 
bed, and that he did look inside the curtains. 

The man had moved. One of his arms was outside the clothes ; 
his face was turned a little on the pillow ; his eyelids were wide 
open. Changed as to position, and as to one of the features, the 
face was, otherwise, fearfully and wonderfully unaltered. The dead 
paleness and the dead quiet were on it still. 

One glance showed Arthur this — ■ one glance, before he flew 
breathlessly to the door, and alarmed the house. 

The man whom the landlord called "Ben," was the first to ap- 
pear on the stairs. In three words, Arthur told him what had 
happened, and sent him for the nearest doctor. 

I, who tell you this story, was then staying with a medical 
friend of mine, in practice at Doncaster, taking care of his patients 
for him, during his absence in London ; and I, for the time being, 
was the nearest doctor. They had sent for me from the Inn, when 
the stranger was taken ill in the afternoon ; but I was not at 
home, and medical assistance was sought for elsewhere. When 
the man from The Two Robins rang the night-bell, I was just 
thinking of going to bed. Naturally enough, I did not believe a 
word of his story about " a dead man who had come to life again." 
However, I put on my hat, armed myself with one or two bottles 
of restorative medicine, and ran to the Inn, expecting to find 
nothing more remarkable, when I got there, than a patient in a fit. 

My surprise at finding that the man had spoken the literal 
truth was almost, if not quite, equalled by my astonishment at 
finding myself face to face with Arthur HoUiday as soon as I 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 355 

entered the bedroom. It was no time then for giving or seeking 
explanations. We just shook hands amazedly; and then I ordered 
everybody but Arthur out of the room, and hurried to the man on 
the bed. 

The kitchen fire had not been long out. There was plenty of 
hot water in the boiler, and plenty of flannel to be had. With 
these, with my medicines, and with such help as Arthur could 
render under my direction, I dragged the man, literally, out of the 
jaws of death. In less than an hour from the time when I had 
been called in, he was alive and talking in the bed on which he 
had been laid out to wait for the Coroner's inquest. 

You will naturally ask me, what had been the matter with 
him ; and I might treat you, in reply, to a long theory, plentifully 
sprinkled with, what the children call, hard words. I prefer tell- 
ing you that, in this case, cause and effect could not be satisfac- 
torily joined together by any theory whatever. There are mysteries 
in life, and the condition of it, which human science has not fathomed 
yet ; and I candidly confess to you, that, in bringing that man 
back to existence, I was, morally speaking, groping hap-hazard in 
the dark. I know (from the testimony of the doctor who attended 
him in the afternoon) that the vital machinery, so far as its action 
is appreciable by our senses, had, in this case, unquestionably 
stopped ; and I am equally certain (seeing that I recovered him) 
that the vital principle was not extinct. When I add, that he 
had suff'ered from a long and complicated illness, and that his whole 
nervous system was utterly deranged, I have told you all I really 
know of the physical condition of my dead-alive patient at The Two 
Robins Inn. 

When he "came to," as the phrase goes, he was a startling 
object to look at, with his colourless face, his sunken cheeks, his 
wild black eyes, and his long black hair. The first question he 
asked me about himself, when he could speak, made me suspect 
that I had been called in to a man in my own profession. I 
mentioned to him my surmise; and he told me that I was right. 

He said he had come last from Paris, where he had been attached 
to a hospital. That he had lately returned to England, on his way 
to Edinburgh, to continue his studies ; that he had been taken ill 
on the journey ; and that he had stopped to rest and recover him- 
self at Doncaster. He did not add a word about his name, or who 
he was : and, of course, I did not question him on the subject. 
All I inquired, when he ceased speaking, was what branch of the 
profession he intended to follow. 

"Any branch," he said, bitterly, "which will put bread into the 
mouth of a poor man." 



356 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

At this, Arthur, who had been hitherto watching him in 
silent curiosity, burst out impetuously in his usual good-humoured 
way: — 

"My dear fellow!" (everybody was "my dear fellow" with 
Arthur) " now you have come to life again, don't begin by being 
downhearted about your prospects. I'll answer for it, I can help 
you to some capital thing in the medical line — or, if I can't, I 
know my father can." 

The medical student looked at him steadily. 

"Thank you," he said, coldly. Then added, "May I ask who 
your father is 1 " 

"He's well enough known all about this part of the country," 
replied Arthur. "He is a great manufacturer, and his name is 
Holliday." 

My hand was on the man's wrist during this brief conversation. 
The instant the name of Holliday was pronounced I felt the pulse 
under my fingers flutter, stop, go on suddenly with a bound, and 
beat afterwards, for a minute or two, at the fever rate. 

"How did you come here?" asked the stranger, quickly, 
excitably, passionately almost. 

Arthur related briefly what had happened from the time of his 
first taking the bed at the Inn. 

"I am indebted to Mr. Holliday 's son then for the help that has 
saved my life," said the medical student, speaking to himself, with 
a singular sarcasm in his voice. " Come here ! " 

He held out, as he spoke, his long, white, bony, right hand. 

" With all my heart," said Arthur, taking the hand cordially. 
" I may confess it now," he continued, laughing. " Upon my 
honour, you almost frightened me out of my wits." 

The stranger did not seem to listen. His wild black eyes were 
fixed with a look of eager interest on Arthur's face, and his long 
bony fingers kept tight hold of Arthur's hand. Young Holliday, 
on his side, returned the gaze, amazed and puzzled by the medical 
student's odd language and manners. The two faces were close 
together ; I looked at them ; and, to my amazement, I was sud- 
denly impressed by the sense of a likeness between them — not in 
features, or complexion, but solely in expression. It must have 
been a strong likeness, or I should certainly not have found it out, 
for I am naturally slow at detecting resemblances between faces. 

"You have saved my life," said the strange man, still looking 
hard in Arthur's face, still holding tightly by his hand. " If you 
had been my own brother, you could not have done more for me 
than that." 

He laid a singularly strong emphasis on those three words " my 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 357 

own brother," and a change passed over his face as he pronounced 
them, — a change that no language of mine is competent to 
describe. 

" I hope I have not done being of service to you yet," said 
Arthur. "I'll speak to my father, as soon as I get home." 

" You seem to be fond and proud of your father," said the 
medical student. " I suppose, in return, he is fond and proud of 
you ? " 

" Of course, he is ! " answered Arthur, laughing. " Is there any- 
thing wonderful in that 1 Isn't 9/our father fond " 

The stranger suddenly dropped young Holliday's hand, and 
turned his face away. 

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur. "I hope I have not unin- 
tentionally pained you. I hope you have not lost your father." 

" I can't well lose what I have never had," retorted the medical 
student, with a harsh, mocking laugh. 

" What you have never had ! " 

The strange man suddenly caught Arthur's hand again, suddenly 
looked once more hard in his face. 

"Yes," he said, with a repetition of the bitter laugh. "You 
have brought a poor devil back into the world, who has no busi- 
ness there. Do I astonish you 1 Well ! I have a fancy of my 
own for telling you what men in my situation generally keep a 
secret. I have no name and no father. The merciful law of 
Society tells me I am Nobody's Son ! Ask your father if he will 
be my father too, and help me on in life with the family name." 

Arthur looked at me, more puzzled than ever. I signed to him 
to say nothing, and then laid my fingers again on the man's wrist. 
No! In spite of the extraordinary speech that he had just made, 
he was not, as I had been disposed to suspect, beginning to get 
light-headed. His pulse, by this time, had fallen back to a quiet, 
slow beat, and' his skin was moist and cool. Not a symptom of 
fever or agitation about him. 

Finding that neither of us answered him, he turned to me, and 
began talking of the extraordinary nature of his case, and asking 
my advice about the future course of medical treatment to which 
he ought to subject himself. I said the matter required careful 
thinking over, and suggested that I should submit certain pre- 
scriptions to him the next morning. He told me to write them at 
once, as he would, most likely, be leaving Doncaster, in the morn- 
ing, before I was up. It was quite useless to represent to him the 
folly and danger of such a proceeding as this. He heard me 
politely and patiently, but held to his resolution, without offering 
any reasons or any explanations, and repeated to me, that if I 



358 THE LAZY TOUE OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

wished to give him a chance of seeing my prescription, I must 
write it at once. Hearing this, Arthur volunteered the loan of a 
travelling writing-case, which, he said, he had with him ; and, 
bringing it to the bed, shook the note-paper out of the pocket of 
the case forthwith in his usual careless way. With the paper, 
there fell out on the counterpane of the bed a small packet of 
sticking-plaster, and a little water-colour drawing of a landscape. 

The medical student took up the drawing and looked at it. 
His eye fell on some initials neatly written, in cypher, in one 
corner. He started and trembled ; his pale face grew whiter than 
ever; his wild black eyes turned on Arthur, and looked through 
and through him. 

"A pretty drawing," he said in a remarkably quiet tone of 
voice. 

"Ah! and done by such a pretty girl," said Arthur. "Oh, 
such a pretty girl ! I wish it was not a landscape — I wish it 
was a portrait of her ! " 

" You admire her very much ? " 

Arthur, half in jest, half in earnest, kissed his hand for answer. 

" Love at first sight ! " he said, putting the drawing away again. 
"But the course of it doesn't run smooth. It's the old story. 
She's monopolised as usual. Trammelled by a rash engagement 
to some poor man who is never likely to get money enough to 
marry her. It was lucky I heard of it in time, or I should cer- 
tainly have risked a declaration when she gave me that drawing. 
Here, doctor ! Here is pen, ink, and paper all ready for you." 

"When she gave you that drawing? Gave it. Gave it." He 
repeated the words slowly to himself, and suddenly closed his eyes. 
A momentary distortion passed across his face, and I saw one of 
his hands clutch up the bed-clothes and squeeze them hard. I 
thought he was going to be ill again, and begged that there might 
be no more talking. He opened his eyes when I spoke, fixed them 
once more search ingly on Arthur, and said, slowly and distinctly, 
" You like her, and she likes you. The poor man may die out of 
your way. Who can tell that she may not give you herself as 
well as her drawing, after all ? " 

Before young Holliday could answer, he turned to me, and said 
in a whisper, " Now for the prescription." From that time, though 
he spoke to Arthur again, he never looked at him more. 

When I had written the prescription, he examined it, approved 
of it, and then astonished us both by abruptly wishing us good 
night. I off'ered to sit up with him, and he shook his head. 
Arthur off'ered to sit up with him, and he said, shortly, with his 
face turned away, "No." I insisted on having somebody left to 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 359 

watch him. He gave way when he found I was determined, and 
said he would accept the services of the waiter at the Inn. 

"Thank you, both," he said, as we rose to go. "I have one 
last favour to ask — not of you, doctor, for I leave you to exercise 
your professional discretion — but of Mr. Holliday." His eyes, 
while he spoke, still rested steadily on me, and never once turned 
towards Arthur. " I beg that Mr. Holliday will not mention to 
any one — least of all to his father — the events that have occurred, 
and the words that have passed, in this room. I entreat him to 
bury me in his memory, as, but for him, I might have been buried 
in my grave. I cannot give my reasons for making this strange 
request. I can only implore him to grant it." 

His voice faltered for the first time, and he hid his face on the 
pillow. Arthur, completely bewildered, gave the required pledge. 
I took young Holliday away with me, immediately afterwards, to 
the house of my friend ; determining to go back to the Inn, and to 
see the medical student again before he had left in the morning. 

I returned to the Inn at eight o'clock, purposely abstaining from 
waking Arthur, who was sleeping off the past night's excitement 
on one of my friend's sofas, A suspicion had occurred to me as 
soon as I was alone in my bedroom, which made me resolve that 
Holliday and the stranger whose life he had saved should not meet 
again, if I could prevent it. I have already alluded to certain 
reports, or scandals, which I knew of, relating to the early life of 
Arthur's father. While I was thinking, in my bed, of what had 
passed at the Inn — of the change in the student's pulse when he 
heard the name of Holliday ; of the resemblance of expression that 
I had discovered between his face and Arthur's ; of the emphasis 
he had laid on those three words, " my own brother ; " and of his 
incomprehensible acknowledgment of his own illegitimacy — while 
I was thinking of these things, the reports I have mentioned sud- 
denly flew into my mind, and linked themselves fast to the chain 
of my previous reflections. Something within me whispered, " It 
is best that those two young men should not meet again." I felt 
it before I slept : I felt it when I woke ; and I went, as I told 
you, alone to the Inn the next morning. 

I had missed my only opportunity of seeing my nameless patient 
again. He had been gone nearly an hour when I inquired for him. 

I have now told you everything that I know for certain, in relation 
to the man whom I brought back to life in the double-bedded room 
of the Inn at Doncaster. What I have next to add is matter for 
inference and surmise, and is not, strictly speaking, matter of fact. 

I have to tell you, first, that the medical student turned out to 



360 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

be strangely and unaccountably right in assuming it as more than 
probable that Arthur HoUiday would marry the young lady who 
had given him the water-colour drawing of the landscape. That 
marriage took place a little more than a year after the events oc- 
curred which I have just been relating. The young couple came 
to live in the neighbourhood in which I was then established in 
practice. I was present at the wedding, and was rather surprised 
to find that Arthur was singularly reserved with me, both before 
and after his marriage, on the subject of the young lady's prior 
engagement. He only referred to it once, when we were alone, 
merely telling me, on that occasion, that his wife had done all that 
honour and duty required of her in the matter, and that the engage- 
ment had been broken off with the full approval of her parents. 
I never heard more from him than this. For three years he and 
his wife lived together happily. At the expiration of that time, 
the symptoms of a serious illness first declared themselves in Mrs. 
Arthur HoUiday. It turned out to be a long, lingering, hopeless 
malady. I attended her throughout. We had been great friends 
when she was well, and we became more attached to each other 
than ever when she was ill. I had many long and interesting con- 
versations with her in the intervals when she suffered least. The 
result of one of these conversations I may briefly relate, leaving you 
to draw any inferences from it that you please. 

The interview to which I refer, occurred shortly before her 
death. I called one evening, as usual, and found her alone, with a 
look in her eyes which told me that she had been crying. She only 
informed me at first, that she had been depressed in spirits ; but, 
by little and little, she became more communicative, and confessed 
to me that she had been looking over some old letters, which had 
been addressed to her, before she had seen Arthur, by a man to 
whom she had been engaged to be married. I asked her how the 
engagement came to be broken off. She replied that it had not 
been broken off, but that it had died out in a very mysterious way. 
The person to whom she was engaged — her first love, she called 
him — was very poor, and there was no immediate prospect of their 
being married. He followed my profession, and went abroad to 
study. They had corresponded regularly, until the time when, as 
she believed, he had returned to England. From that period she 
heard no more of him. He was of a fretful, sensitive temperament ; 
and she feared that she might have inadvertently done or said some- 
thing that offended him. However that might be, he had never 
written to her again ; and, after waiting a year, she had married 
Arthur. I asked when the first estrangement had begun, and 
found that the time at which she ceased to hear anything of her 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 861 

first lover exactly corresponded with the time at which I had been 
called in to my mysterious patient at The Two Robins Inn. 

A fortnight after that conversation, she died. In course of time, 
Arthur married again. Of late years, he has lived principally in 
London, and I have seen little or nothing of him. 

I have many years to pass over before I can approach to any- 
thing like a conclusion of this fragmentary narrative. And even 
when that later period is reached, the little that I have to say 
will not occupy your attention for more than a few minutes. Be- 
tween six and seven years ago, the gentleman to whom I intro- 
duced you in this room, came to me, with good professional 
recommendations, to fill the position of my assistant. We met, 
not like strangers, but like friends — the only diff'erence between 
us being, that I was very much surprised to see him, and that he 
did not appear to be at all surprised to see me. If he was my son, 
or my brother, I believe he could not be fonder of me than he is ; 
but he has never volunteered any confidences since he has been 
here, on the subject of his past life. I saw something that was 
familiar to me in his face when we first met ; and yet it was also 
something that suggested the idea of change. I had a notion once 
that my patient at the Inn might be a natural son of Mr, Holliday's ; 
I had another idea that he might also have been the man who was 
engaged to Arthur's first wife ; and I have a third idea, still cling- 
ing to me, that Mr. Lorn is the only man in England who could 
really enlighten me, if he chose, on both those doubtful points. 
His hair is not black, now, and his eyes are dimmer than the 
piercing eyes that I remember, but, for all that, he is very like the 
nameless medical student of my young days — very like him. And, 
sometimes, when I come home late at night, and find him asleep, and 
wake him, he looks, in coming to, wonderfully like the stranger at 
Doncaster, as he raised himself in the bed on that memorable night ! 

The Doctor paused. Mr. Goodchild who had been following 
every word that fell from his lips, up to this time, leaned forward 
eagerly to ask a question. Before he could say a word, the latch 
of the door was raised, without any warning sound of footsteps in 
the passage outside. A long, white, bony hand appeared through 
the opening, gently pushing the door, which was prevented from 
working freely on its hinges by a fold in the carpet under it. 

" That hand ! Look at that hand. Doctor ! " said Mr. Goodchild, 
touching him. 

At the same moment, the Doctor looked at Mr, Goodchild, and 
whispered to him, significantly : 

" Hush ! he has come back." 



362 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 



CHAPTER III. 

The Cumberland Doctor's mention of Doncaster Races, inspired 
Mr. Francis Goodchild with the idea of going down to Doncaster 
to see the races. Doncaster being a good way off, and quite out of 
the way of the Idle Aj^prentices (if anything could be out of their 
way, who had no way), it necessarily followed that Francis per- 
ceived Doncaster in the race- week to be, of all possible idlenesses, 
the particular idleness that would completely satisfy him. 

Thomas, with an enforced idleness grafted on the natural and 
voluntary power of his disposition, was not of this mind ; objecting 
that a man compelled to lie on his back on a floor, a sofa, a table, a 
line of chairs, or anything he could get to lie upon, was not in rac- 
ing condition, and that he desired nothing better than to lie where 
he was, enjoying himself in looking at the flies on the ceiling. But, 
Francis Goodchild, who had been walking round his companion in 
a circuit of twelve miles for two days, and had begun to doubt 
whether it was reserved for him ever to be idle in his life, not only 
overpowered this objection, but even converted Thomas Idle to a 
scheme he formed (another idle inspiration), of conveying the said 
Thomas to the sea-coast, and putting his injured leg under a stream 
of salt-water. 

Plunging into this happy conception headforemost, Mr. Good- 
child immediately referred to the county-map, and ardently discov- 
ered that the most delicious piece of sea-coast to be found within 
the limits of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, the Isle of Man, 
and the Channel Islands, all summed up together, was Allonby on 
the coast of Cumberland. There was the coast of Scotland oppo- 
site to Allonby, said Mr. Goodchild with enthusiasm; there was 
a fine Scottish mountain on that Scottish coast ; there were Scot- 
tish lights to be seen shining across the glorious Channel, and at 
Allonby itself there was every idle luxury (no doubt), that a water- 
ing-place could offer to the heart of idle man. Moreover, said Mr. 
Goodchild, with his finger on the map, this exquisite retreat was 
approached by a coach-road, from a railway-station called Aspatria 
— a name, in a manner, suggestive of the departed glories of 
Greece, associated with one of the most engaging and most famous 
of Greek women. On this point, Mr. Goodchild continued at inter- 
vals to breathe a vein of classic fancy and eloquence exceedingly 
irksome to Mr. Idle, until it appeared that the honest English pro- 
nunciation of that Cumberland country shortened Aspatria into 
"Spatter." After this supplementary discovery, Mr. Goodchild 
said no more about it. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 363 

By way of Spatter, the crippled Idle was carried, hoisted, 
pushed, poked, and packed, into and out of carriages, into and 
out of beds, into and out of tavern resting-places, until he was 
brought at length within sniff of the sea. And now, behold the 
apprentices gallantly riding into Allonby in a one-horse fly, bent 
upon staying in that peaceful marine valley until the turbulent 
Doncaster time shall come round upon the wheel, in its turn among 
what are in sporting registers called the "Fixtures " for the month. 

"Do you see Allonby?" asked Thomas Idle. 

" I don't see it yet," said Francis looking out of window. 

"It must be there," said Thomas Idle. 

"I don't see it," returned Francis. 

"It must be there," repeated Thomas Idle, fretfully. 

" Lord bless me ! " exclaimed Francis, drawing in his head, " I 
suppose this is it ! " 

"A watering-place," retorted Thomas Idle, with the pardonable 
sharpness of an invalid, " can't be five gentlemen in straw-hats, on 
a form on one side of a door, and four ladies in hats and falls, on 
a form on another side of a door, and three geese in a dirty little 
brook before them, and a boy's legs hanging over a bridge (with a 
boy's body I suppose on the other side of the parapet), and a don- 
key running away. What are you talking about ? " 

" Allonby, gentlemen," said the most comfortable of landladies, 
as she opened one door of the carriage; "Allonby, gentlemen," 
said the most attentive of landlords, as he opened the otlier. 

Thomas Idle yielded his arm to the ready Goodchild, and de- 
scended from the vehicle. Thomas, now just able to grope his 
way along, in a doubled-up condition, with the aid of two thick 
sticks, was no bad embodiment of Commodore Trunnion, or of one 
of those many gallant Admirals of the stage, who have all ample 
fortunes, gout, thick-sticks, tempers, wards, and nephews. With 
this distinguished naval appearance upon him, Thomas made a 
crab-like progress up a clean little bulk-headed staircase, into 
a clean little bulk-headed room, where he slowly deposited him- 
self on a sofa, with a stick on either hand of him, looking exceed- 
ingly grim. 

" Francis," said Thomas Idle, " what do you think of this place ? " 

"I think," returned Mr. Goodchild, in a glowing way, "it is 
everything we expected." 

" Hah ! " said Thomas Idle. 

" There is the sea," cried Mr. Goodchild, pointing out of win- 
dow ; " and here," pointing to the lunch on the table, " are shrimps. 

Let us " here Mr. Goodchild looked out of window, as if in 

search of something, and looked in again, — "let us eat 'em." 



364 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

The shrimps eaten and the dinner ordered, Mr. Goodchild went 
out to survey the watering-place. As Chorus of the Drama, with- 
out whom Thomas could make nothing of the scenery, he by-and- 
bye returned, to have the following report screwed out of him. 

In brief, it was the most delightful place ever seen. 

"But," Thomas Idle asked, "where is it?" 

" It's what you may call generally up and down the beach, here 
and there," said Mr. Goodchild, with a twist of his hand. 

" Proceed," said Thomas Idle. 

It was, Mr. Goodchild went on to say, in cross-examination, 
what you might call a primitive place. Large ? No, it was not 
large. Who ever expected it would be large ? Shape ? What a 
question to ask ! No shape. What sort of a street ? Why, no 
street. Shops'? Yes, of course (quite indignant). How many? 
Who ever went into a place to count the shops ? Ever so many. 
Six? Perhaps. A library? Why, of course (indignant again). 
Good collection of books ? Most likely — couldn't say — had seen 
nothing in it but a pair of scales. Any reading-room ? Of course, 
there was a reading-room. Where ? Where ! why, over there. 
Where was over there? Why, there 1 Let Mr. Idle carry his 
eye to that bit of waste-ground above high water-mark, where the 
rank grass and loose stones were most in a litter ; and he would 
see a sort of a long ruinous brick loft, next door to a ruinous brick 
outhouse, which loft had a ladder outside, to get up by. That was 
the reading-room, and if Mr. Idle didn't like the idea of a Aveaver's 
shuttle throbbing under a reading-room, that was his look-out. 
He was not to dictate, Mr. Goodchild supposed (indignant again), 
to the company. 

"By the bye," Thomas Idle observed; "the company?" 

Well ! (Mr. Goodchild went on to report) very nice company. 
Where were they? Why, there they were. Mr. Idle could see 
the tops of their hats, he supposed. What ? Those nine straw- 
hats again, five gentlemen's and four ladies'? Yes, to be sure. 
Mr. Goodchild hoped the company were not to be expected to 
wear helmets, to please Mr. Idle. 

Beginning to recover his temper at about this point, Mr. Good- 
child voluntarily reported that if you wanted to be primitive, you 
could be primitive here, and that if you wanted to be idle, you 
could be idle here. In the course of some days, he added, that 
there were three fishing-boats, but no rigging, and that there were 
plenty of fishermen who never fished. That they got their living 
entirely by looking at the ocean. What nourishment they looked 
out of it to support their strength, he couldn't say ; but, he sup- 
posed it was some sort of Iodine. The place was full of their 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE 4JPPRENTICES. 365 

children, who were always upside down on the public buildings 
(two small bridges over the brook), and always hurting themselves 
or one another, so that their wailings made more continual noise 
in the air than could have been got in a busy place. The houses 
people lodged in, were nowhere in particular, and were in capital 
accordance with the beach ; being all more or less cracked and 
damaged as its shells were, and all empty — as its shells were. 
Among them, was an edifice of destitute appearance, with a num- 
ber of wall-eyed windows in it, looking desperately out to Scotland 
as if for help, which said it was a Bazaar (and it ought to know), 
and where you might buy anything you wanted — supposing what 
you wanted, was a little camp-stool or a child's wheelbarrow. The 
brook crawled or stopped between the houses and the sea, and the 
donkey was always running away, and when he got into the brook 
he was pelted out with stones, which never hit him, and which 
always hit some of the children who were upside down on the 
public buildings, and made their lamentations louder. This donkey 
was the public excitement of Allonby, and was probably supported 
at the public expense. 

The foregoing descriptions, delivered in separate items, on sepa- 
rate days of adventurous discovery, Mr. Goodchild severally wound 
up, by looking out of window, looking in again, and saying, " But 
there is the sea, and here are the shrimps — let us eat 'em." 

There were fine sunsets at Allonby when the low flat beach, 
with its pools of water and its dry patches, changed into long 
bars of silver and gold in various states of burnishing, and there 
were fine views — on fine days — of the Scottish coast. But, 
when it rained at Allonby, Allonby thrown back upon its ragged 
self, became a kind of place which the donkey seemed to have 
found out, and to have his highly sagacious reasons for wishing to 
bolt from. Thomas Idle observed, too, that Mr. Goodchild, with 
a noble show of disinterestedness, became every day more ready to 
walk to Maryport and back, for letters ; and suspicions began to 
harbour in the mind of Thomas, that his friend deceived him, and 
that Maryport was a preferable place. 

Therefore, Thomas said to Francis on a day when they had looked 
at the sea and eaten the shrimps, " My mind misgives me. Good- 
child, that you go to Maryport, like the boy in the story-book, to 
ask it to be idle with you." 

"Judge, then," returned Francis, adopting the style of the story- 
book, "with what success. I go to a region which is a bit of 
water side Bristol, with a slice of Wapping, a seasoning of Wolver- 
hampton, and a garnish of Portsmouth, and I say, ' Will you come 
and be idle with me 1 ' And it answers, ' No ; for I am a great 



366 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

deal too vaporous, and a great deal too rusty, and a great deal too 
muddy, and a great deal too dirty altogether; and I have ships to 
load, and pitch and tar to boil, and iron to hammer, and steam to 
get up, and smoke to make, and stone to quarry, and fifty other 
disagreeable things to do, and I can't be idle with you.' Then I 
go into jagged up-hill and down-hill streets, where I am in the 
pastrycook's shop at one moment, and next moment in savage fast- 
nesses of moor and morass, beyond the, confines of civilisation, and 
I say to those murky and black-dusky streets, ' Will you come and 
be idle with me % ' To which they reply, ' No, we can't, indeed, 
for we haven't the spirits, and we are startled by the echo of your 
feet on the sharp pavement, and we have so many goods in our 
shop- windows which nobody wants, and we have so much to do for 
a limited public which never comes to us to be done for, that we are 
altogether out of sorts and can't enjoy ourselves with any one.' 
So I go to the Post-office, and knock at the shutter, and I say to 
the Post-master, ' Will you come and be idle with me ? ' To which 
he rejoins, ' No, I really can't, for I live, as you may see, in such a 
very little Post-office, and pass my life behind such a very little 
shutter, that my hand, when I put it out, is as the hand of a giant 
crammed through the window of a dwarfs house at a fair, and I 
am a mere Post-office anchorite in a cell much too small for him, 
and I can't get out, and I can't get in, and I have no space to be 
idle in, even if I would.' So, the boy," said Mr. Goodchild, con- 
cluding the tale, " comes back with the letters after all, and lives 
happy never afterwards." 

But it may, not unreasonably, be asked — while Francis Good- 
child was wandering hither and thither, storing his mind with per- 
petual observation of men and things, and sincerely believing 
himself to be the laziest creature in existence all the time — how 
did Thomas Idle, crippled and confined to the house, contrive to 
get through the hours of the day ? 

Prone on the sofa, Thomas made no attempt to get through the 
hours, but passively allowed the hours to get through him. Where 
other men in his situation would have read books and improved 
their minds, Thomas slept and rested his body. Where other men 
would have pondered anxiously over their future prospects, Thomas 
dreamed lazily of his past life. The one solitary thing he did, 
which most other people would have done in his place, was to 
resolve on making certain alterations and improvements in his 
mode of existence, as soon as the effects of the misfortune that had 
overtaken him had all passed away. Remembering that the cur- 
rent of his life had hitherto oozed along in one smooth stream of 
laziness, occasionally troubled on the surface by a slight passing 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 367 

ripple of industry, his present ideas on the subject of self-reform, 
inclined him — not as the reader may be disposed to imagine, to 
project schemes for a new existence of enterprise and exertion — 
but, on the contrary, to resolve that he would never, if he could 
possibly help it, be active or industrious again, throughout the 
whole of his future career. 

It is due to Mr. Idle to relate that his mind sauntered towards 
this peculiar conclusion on distinct and logically producible grounds. 
After reviewing, quite at his ease, and with many needful intervals 
of repose, the generally placid spectacle of his past existence, he 
arrived at the discovery that all the great disasters which had tried 
his patience and equanimity in early life, had been caused by his 
having allowed himself to be deluded into imitating some perni- 
cious example of activity and industry that had been set him by 
others. The trials to which he here alludes were three in number, 
and may be thus reckoned up : First, the disaster of being an 
unpopular and a thrashed boy at school ; secondly, the disaster of 
falling seriously ill ; thirdly, the disaster of becoming acquainted 
with a great bore. 

The first disaster occurred after Thomas had been an idle and 
a popular boy at school, for some happy years. One Christmas- 
time, he was stimulated by the evil example of a companion, whom 
he had always trusted and liked, to be untrue to himself, and to 
try for a prize at the ensuing half-yearly examination. He did try, 
and he got a prize — how, he did not distinctly know at the 
moment, and cannot remember now. No sooner, however, had 
the book — Moral Hints to the Young on the Value of Time — 
been placed in his hands, than the first troubles of his life began. 
The idle boys deserted him, as a traitor to their cause. Tlie 
industrious boys avoided him, as a dangerous interloper; one of 
their number, who had always won the prize on previous occasions, 
expressing just resentment at the invasion of his privileges by 
calling Thomas into the play-ground, and then and there adminis- 
tering to him the first sound and genuine thrashing that he had 
ever received in his life. Unpopular from that moment, as a beaten 
boy, who belonged to no side and was rejected by all parties, young 
Idle soon lost caste with his masters, as he had previously lost caste 
with his school-fellows. He had forfeited the comfortable reputa- 
tion of being the one lazy member of the youthful community whom 
it was quite hopeless to punish. Never again did he hear the head- 
master say reproachfully to an industrious boy who iiad committed 
a fiiult, "I might have expected this in Thomas Idle, but it is in- 
excusable, sir, in you, who know better." Never more, after win- 
ning that fatal prize, did he escape the retributive imposition, or 



368 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

the avenging birch. From that time, the masters made him work, 
and the boys would not let him play. From that time his social 
position steadily declined, and his life at school became a perpetual 
burden to him. 

So, again, with the second disaster. While Thomas was lazy, he 
was a model of health. His first attempt at active exertion and 
his first suffering from severe illness are connected together by the 
intimate relations of cause and effect. Shortly after leaving school, 
he accompanied a party of friends to a cricket-field, in his natural 
and appropriate character of spectator only. On the ground it was 
discovered that the players fell short of the required number, and 
facile Thomas w^as persuaded to assist in making up the comple- 
ment. At a certain appointed time, ho was roused from peaceful 
slumber in a dry ditch, and placed before three wickets with 
a bat in his hand. Opposite to him, behind three more wickets, 
stood one of his bosom friends, filling the situation (as he was in- 
formed) of bowler. No words can describe Mr. Idle's horror and 
amazement, when he saw this young man — on ordinary occasions, 
the meekest and mildest of human beings — suddenly contract his 
eyebrows, compress his lips, assume the aspect of an infuriated 
savage, run back a few steps, then run forward, and, without the 
slightest previous provocation, hurl a detestably hard ball with all 
his might straight at Thomas's legs. Stimulated to preternatural 
activity of body and sharpness of eye by the instinct of self-preser- 
vation, Mr. Idle contrived, by jumping deftly aside at the right mo- 
ment, and by using his bat (ridiculously narrow as it \vas for the 
purpose) as a shield, to preserve his life and limbs from the das- 
tardly attack that had been made on both, to leave the full force of 
the deadly missile to strike his wicket instead of his leg ; and to 
end the innings, so far as his side was concerned, by being immedi- 
ately bowled out. Grateful for his escape he was about to return 
to the dry ditch, when he was peremptorily stopped, and told that 
the other side was "going in," and that he was expected to "field." 
His conception of the whole art and mystery of "fielding," may be 
summed up in the three words of serious advice which he privately 
administered to himself on that trying occasion — avoid the ball. 
Fortified by this sound and salutary principle, he took his ow^n 
course, impervious alike to ridicule and abuse. Whenever the ball 
came near him, he thought of his shins, and got out of the way im- 
mediately. "Catch it ! " " Stop it ! " " Pitch it up ! " were cries 
that passed by him like the idle wind that he regarded not. He 
ducked under it, he jumped over it, he whisked himself away from 
it on either side. Never once, through the whole innings did he 
and the ball come together on anything approaching to intimate 



t 

THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 369 

terms. The unnatural activity of body which was necessarily called 
forth for the accomplishment of this result threw Thomas Idle, for 
the first time in his life, into a perspiration. The perspiration, in 
consequence of his want of practice in the management of that par- 
ticular result of bodily activity, was suddenly checked; the inevi- 
table chill succeeded ; and that, in its turn, was followed by a fever. 
For the first time since his birth, Mr. Idle found himself confined 
to his bed for many weeks together, wasted and worn by a long ill- 
ness, of which his own disastrous muscular exertion had been the 
sole first cause. 

The third occasion on which Thomas found reason to reproach 
himself bitterly for the mistake of having attempted to be industri- 
ous, was connected with his choice of a calling in life. Having no 
interest in the Church, he appropriately selected the next best 
profession for a lazy man in England — the Bar. Although the 
Benchers of the Inns of Court have lately abandoned their good old 
principles, and oblige their students to make some show of study- 
ing, in Mr. Idle's time no such innovation as this existed. Young 
men who aspired to the honourable title of barrister were, very 
properly, not asked to learn anything of the law, but were merely 
required to eat a certain number of dinners at the table of their 
Hall, and to pay a certain sum of money ; and were called to the 
Bar as soon as they could prove that they had sufficiently complied 
with these extremely sensible regulations. Never did Thomas 
move more harmoniously in concert with his elders and betters than 
when he was qualifying himself for admission among the barristers 
of his native country. Never did he feel more deeply what real 
laziness was in all the serene majesty of its nature, than on the 
memorable day when he was called to the bar, after having care- 
fully abstained from opening his law-books during his period of 
probation, except to fall asleep over them. How he could ever 
again have become industrious, even for the shortest period, after 
that great reward conferred upon his idleness, quite passes his com- 
prehension. The kind benchers did everything they could to show 
him the folly of exerting himself. They wrote out his probationary 
exercise for him, and never expected him even to take the trouble 
of reading it through when it was written. They invited him, with 
seven other choice spirits as lazy as himself, to come and be called 
to the bar, while they were sitting over their wine and fruit after 
dinner. They put his oaths of allegiance, and his dreadful official 
denunciations of the Pope and the Pretender so gently into his 
mouth, that he hardly knew how the words got there. They 
wheeled all their chairs softly round from the table, and sat sur- 
veying the young barristers with their backs to their bottles, rather 

2£ 



370 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

than stand up, or adjourn to hear the exercises read. And when 
Mr. Idle and the seven unlabouring neophytes, ranged in order, as 
a class, with their backs considerately placed against a screen, had 
begun, in rotation, to read the exercises w^hich they had not written, 
even then, each Bencher, true to the great lazy principle of the 
whole proceeding, stopped each neophyte before he had stammered 
through his first line, and bowed to him, and told him politely 
that he was a barrister from that moment. This was all the cere- 
mony. It was followed by a social supper, and by the presentation, 
in accordance with ancient custom, of a pound of sweetmeats and a 
bottle of Madeira, offered in the way of needful refreshment, by 
each grateful neophyte to each beneficent Bencher. It may seem 
inconceivable that Thomas should ever have forgotten the great do- 
nothing principle instilled by such a ceremony as this ; but it is, 
nevertheless, true, that certain designing students of industrious 
habits found him out, took advantage of his easy humour, per- 
suaded him that it was discreditable to be a barrister and to know 
nothing whatever about the law, and lured him, by the force of 
their own evil example, into a conveyancer's chambers, to make up 
for lost time, and to qualify himself for practice at the Bar. After 
a fortnight of self-delusion, the curtain fell from his eyes ; he re- 
sumed his natural character, and shut up his books. But the retri- 
bution which had hitherto always followed his little casual errors of 
industry followed them still. He could get away from the con- 
veyancer's chambers, but he could not get away from one of the 
pupils, who had taken a fancy to him, — a tall, serious, raw-boned, 
hard-working, disputatious pupil, with ideas of his own about re- 
forming the Law of Eeal Property, who has been the scourge of 
Mr. Idle's existence ever sihce the fatal day when he fell into the 
mistake of attempting to study the law. Before that time his 
friends were all sociable idlers like himself. Since that time the 
burden of bearing with a hard-working young man has become part 
of his lot in life. Go where he will now, he can never feel certain 
that the raw-boned pupil is not affectionately waiting for him round 
a corner, to tell him a little more about the Law of Real Property. 
Suffer as he may under the infliction, he can never complain, for he 
must always remember, with unavaiHng regret, that he has his own 
thoughtless industry to thank for first exposing him to the great 
social calamity of knowing a bore. 

These events of his past life, with the significant results that they 
brought about, pass drowsily through Thomas Idle's memory, while 
he lies alone on the sofa at Allonby and elsewhere, dreaming away 
the time which his fellow-apprentice gets through so actively out 
of doors. Remembering the lesson of laziness which his past dis- 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 371 

asters teach, and bearing in mind also the fact that he is crippled 
in one leg because he exerted himself to go up a mountain, when 
he ought to have known that his proper course of conduct was to 
stop at the bottom of it, he holds now, and will for the future 
firmly continue to hold, by his new resolution never to be industri- 
ous again, on any pretence whatever, for the rest of his life. The 
physical results of his accident have been related in a previous 
chapter. The moral results now stand on record ; and, with the 
enumeration of these, that part of the present narrative which is 
occupied by the Episode of The Sprained Ankle may now perhaps 
be considered, in all its aspects, as finished and complete. 

" How do you propose that we get through this present after- 
noon and evening?" demanded Thomas Idle, after two or three 
hours of the foregoing reflections at Allonby. 

Mr. Goodchild faltered, looked out of window, looked in again, 
and said, as he had so often said before, " There is the sea, and 
here are the shrimps ; — let us eat 'em ! " 

But, the wise donkey was at that moment in the act of bolting : 
not with the irresolution of his previous efforts which had been 
wanting in sustained force of character, but with real vigour of pur- 
pose : shaking the dust off his mane and hind-feet at Allonby, and 
tearing away from it, as if he had nobly made up his mind that he 
never would be taken alive. At sight of this inspiring spectacle, 
which was visible from his sofa, Thomas Idle stretched his neck 
and dwelt upon it rapturously. 

"Francis Goodchild," he then said, turning to his companion 
with a solemn air, "this is a delightful little Inn, excellently kept 
by the most comfortable of landladies and the most attentive of 
landlords, but the donkey's right ! " 

The words, " There is the sea, and here are the ," again 

trembled on the lips of Goodchild, unaccompanied however by any 
sound. 

" Let us instantly pack the portmanteaus," said Thomas Idle, 
"pay the bill, and order a fly out, with instructions to the driver 
to follow the donkey ! " 

Mr. Goodchild, who had only wanted encouragement to disclose 
the real state of his feelings, and who had been pining beneath his 
weary secret, now burst into tears, and confessed that he thought 
another day in the place would be the death of him. 

So, the two idle apprentices followed the donkey until the night 
was far advanced. Whether he was recaptured by the town-coun- 
cil, or is bolting at this hour through the United Kingdom, they 
know not. They hope he may still be bolting : if so, their best 
wishes are with him. 



372 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

It entered Mr. Idle's head, on the borders of Cumberland, that 
there could be no idler place to stay at, except by snatches of a 
few minutes each, than a railway station. " An intermediate sta- 
tion on a line — a junction — anything of that sort," Thomas sug- 
gested. Mr. Goodchild approved of the idea as eccentric, and they 
journeyed on and on, until they came to such a station where there 
was an Inn. 

" Here," said Thomas, " we may be luxuriously lazy ; other 
people will travel for us, as it were, and we shall laugh at their 
folly." 

It was a Junction- Station, where the wooden razors before men- 
tioned shaved the air very often, and where the sharp electric- 
telegraph bell was in a very restless condition. All manner of 
cross-lines of rails came zig-zagging into it, like a Congress of iron 
vipers ; and, a little way out of it, a pointsman in an elevated 
signal-box was constantly going through the motions of drawing 
immense quantities of beer at a public-house bar. In one direc- 
tion, confused perspectives of embankments and arches were to be 
seen from the platform ; in the other, the rails soon disentangled 
themselves into two tracks, and shot away under a bridge, and 
curved round a corner. Sidings were there, in which empty lug- 
gage-vans and cattle-boxes often butted against each other as if 
they couldn't agree; and warehouses were there, in which great 
quantities of goods seemed to have taken the veil (of the consistency 
of tarpaulin), and to have retired from the world without any hope 
of getting back to it. Refreshment-rooms were there ; one, for the 
hungry and thirsty Iron Locomotives where their coke and water 
were ready, and of good quality, for they were dangerous to play 
tricks with ; the other, for the hungry and thirsty human Locomo- 
tives, who might take what they could get, and whose chief con- 
solation was provided in the form of three terrific urns or vases of 
white metal, containing nothing, each forming a breast-work for a 
defiant and apparently much-injured woman. 

Established at this Station, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis 
Goodchild resolved to enjoy it. But, its contrasts were very vio- 
lent, and there was also an infection in it. 

First, as to its contrasts. They were only two, but they were 
Lethargy and Madness. The Station was either totally unconscious, 
or wildly raving. By day, in its unconscious state, it looked as if 
no life could come to it, — as if it were all rust, dust, and ashes — 
as if the last train for ever had gone without issuing any Return- 
Tickets — as if the last Engine had uttered its last shriek and 
burst. One awkward shave of the air from the wooden razor, and 
everything changed. Tight office-doors flew open, panels yielded, 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 373 

books, newspapers, travelling-caps and wrappers broke out of brick 
walls, money chinked, conveyances oppressed by nightmares of lug- 
gage came careering into the yard, porters started up from secret 
places, ditto the much-injured women, the shining bell, who lived 
in a little tray on stilts by himself, flew into a man's hand and 
clamoured violently. The pointsman aloft in the signal-box made 
the motions of drawing, with some difficulty, hogsheads of beer. 
Down Train ! More beer. Up Train ! More beer. Cross Junc- 
tion Train ! More beer. Cattle Train ! More beer. Goods 
Train ! Simmering, whistling, trembling, rumbling, thundering. 
Trains on the whole confusion of intersecting rails, crossing one 
another, bumping one another, hissing one another, backing to 
go forward, tearing into distance to come close. People frantic. 
Exiles seeking restoration to their native carriages, and banished 
to remoter climes. More beer and more bell. Then, in a minute, 
the Station relapsed into stupor as the stoker of the Cattle Train, 
the last to depart, went gliding out of it, wiping the long nose of 
his oil-can with a dirty pocket-handkerchief. 

By night, in its unconscious state, the station was not so much 
as visible. Something in the air, like an enterprising chemist's 
established in business on one of the boughs of Jack's beanstalk, 
was all that could be discerned of it under the stars. In a moment 
it would break out, a constellation of gas. In another moment, 
twenty rival chemists, on twenty rival beanstalks, came into exist- 
ence. Then, the Furies would be seen, waving their lurid torches 
up and down the confused perspectives of embankments and arches 
— would be heard, too, wailing and shrieking. Then, the Station 
would be full of palpitating trains, as in the day ; with the heighten- 
ing difference that they were not so clearly seen as in the day, 
whereas the station walls, starting forward under the gas, like a hip- 
popotamus's eyes, dazzled the human locomotives with the sauce-bot- 
tle, the cheap music, the bedstead, the distorted range of buildings 
where the patent safes are made, the gentleman in the rain with 
the registered umbrella, the lady returning from the ball with the 
registered respirator, and all their other embellishments. And 
now, the human locomotives, creased as to their countenances and 
purblind as to their eyes, would swarm forth in a heap, addressing 
themselves to the mysterious urns and the much-injured women ; 
while the iron locomotives, dripping fire and water, shed their 
steam about plentifully, making the dull oxen in their cages, with 
heads depressed, and foam hanging from their mouths as their red 
looks glanced fearfully at the surrounding terrors, seem as though 
they had been drinking at half-frozen waters and were hung with 
icicles. Through the same steam would be caught glimpses of their 



374 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

fellow-travellers, the sheep, getting their white kid faces together, 
away from the bars, and stuffing the interstices with trembling 
wool. Also, down among the wheels, of the man with the sledge- 
hammer, ringing the axles of the fast night-train ; against whom 
the oxen have a misgiving that he is the man with the pole-axe 
who is to come by-and-bye, and so the nearest of them try to get 
back, and get a purchase for a thrust at him through the bars. 
Suddenly, the bell would ring, the steam would stop with one hiss 
and a yell, the chemists on the beanstalks would be busy, the 
avenging Furies would bestir themselves, the fast night-train would 
melt from eye and ear, the other trains going their ways more 
slowly would be heard faintly rattling in the distance like old- 
fashioned watches running down, the sauce-bottle and cheap music 
retired from view, even the bedstead went to bed, and there was 
no such visible thing as the Station to vex the cool wind in its 
blowing, or perhaps the autumn lightning, as it found out the iron 
rails. 

The infection of the Station was this : — When it was in its 
raving state, the Apprentices found it impossible to be there, with- 
out labouring under the delusion that they were in a hurry. To 
Mr. Goodchild, whose ideas of idleness were so imperfect, this was 
no unpleasant hallucination, and accordingly that gentleman went 
through great exertions in yielding to it, and running up and down 
the platform, jostling everybody, under the impression that he had 
a highly important mission somewhere, and had not a moment to 
lose. But, to Thomas Idle, this contagion was so very unacceptable 
an incident of the situation, that he struck on the fourth day, and 
requested to be moved. 

" This place fills me with a dreadful sensation," said Thomas, 
"of having something to do. Remove me, Francis." 

" Where would you like to go next ? " was the question of the 
ever-engaging Goodchild. 

" I have heard there is a good old Inn at Lancaster, established 
in a fine old house : an Inn where they give you Bride-cake every 
day after dinner," said Thomas Idle. " Let us eat Bride-cake with- 
out the trouble of being married, or of knowing anybody in that 
ridiculous dilemma." 

Mr. Goodchild, with a lover's sigh, assented. They departed 
from the Station in a violent hurry (for which, it is unnecessary 
to observe, there was not the least occasion), and were delivered 
at the fine old house at Lancaster, on the same night. 

It is Mr. Goodchild's opinion, that if a visitor on his arrival at 
Lancaster could be -accommodated with a pole which would push 
the opposite side of the street some yards farther off", it would be 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 375 

better for all parties. Protesting against being required to live in 
a trench, and obliged to speculate all day upon what the people 
can possibly be doing within a mysterious opposite window, which 
is a shop-window to look at, but not a shop-window in respect of 
its offering nothing for sale and declining to give any account what- 
ever of itself, Mr. Goodchild concedes Lancaster to be a pleasant 
place. A place dropped in the midst of a charming landscape, a 
place with a fine ancient fragment of castle, a place of lovely walks, 
a place possessing staid old houses richly fitted with old Honduras 
mahogany, which has grown so dark with time that it seems to 
have got something of a retrospective mirror-quality into itself, 
and to show the visitor, in the depth of its grain, through all its 
polish, the hue of the wretched slaves who groaned long ago under 
old Lancaster merchants. And Mr. Goodchild adds that the stones 
of Lancaster do sometimes whisper, even yet, of rich men passed 
away — upon whose great prosperity some of these old doorways 
frowned sullen in the brightest weather — that their slave-gain 
turned to curses, as the Arabian Wizard's money turned to leaves, 
and that no good ever came of it, even unto the third and fourth 
generations, until it was wasted and gone. 

It was a gallant sight to behold, the Sunday procession of the 
Lancaster elders to Church — all in black, and looking fearfully like 
a funeral without the Body — under the escort of Three Beadles. 

"Think," said Francis, as he stood at the Inn window, admir- 
ing, " of being taken to the sacred edifice by three Beadles ! I 
have, in my early time, been taken out of it by one Beadle ; but, 
to be taken into it by three, Thomas, is a distinction I shall never 
enjoy ! " 



CHAPTER IV. 

When Mr. Goodchild had looked out of the Lancaster Inn 
window for two hours on end, with great perseverance, he began 
to entertain a misgiving that he was growing industrious. He 
therefore set himself next, to explore the country from the tops 
of all the steep hills in the neighbourhood. 

He came back at dinner-time, red and glowing, to tell Thomas 
Idle what he had seen. Thomas, on his back reading, listened with 
great composure, and asked him whether he really had gone up 
those hills, and bothered himself with those views, and walked all 
those miles ? 

"Because I want to know," added Thomas, "what you would 
say of it, if you were obliged to do it ? " 



376 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

" It would be different, then," said Francis. " It would be work, 
then ; now, it's play." 

" Play ! " replied Thomas Idle, utterly repudiating the reply. 
"Play! Here is a man goes systematically tearing himself to 
pieces, and putting himself through an incessant course of train- 
ing as if he were always under articles to jBght a match for the 
champion's belt, and he calls it Play ! Play ! '•' exclaimed Thomas 
Idle, scornfully contemplating his one boot in the air. " You canH 
play. You don't know what it is. You make work of every- 
thing." 

The bright Goodchild amiably smiled. 

"So you do," said Thomas. "I mean it. To me you are an 
absolutely terrible fellow. You do nothing like another man. 
Where another fellow would fall into a footbath of action or 
emotion, you fall into a mine. Where any other fellow would be 
a painted butterfly, you are a fiery dragon. Where another man 
would stake a sixpence, you stake your existence. If you were to 
go up in a balloon, you would make for Heaven ; and if you were 
to dive into the depths of the earth, nothing short of the other 
place would content you. What a fellow you are, Francis ! " 

The cheerful Goodchild laughed. 

" It's all very well to laugh, but I wonder you don't feel it to 
be serious," said Idle. "A man who can do nothing by halves 
appears to me to be a fearful man." 

"Tom, Tom," returned Goodchild, "if I can do nothing by 
halves, and be nothing by halves, it's pretty clear that you must 
take me as a whole, and make the best of me." 

With this philosophical rejoinder, the airy Goodchild clapped 
Mr. Idle on the shoulder in a final manner, and they sat down to 
dinner. 

" By the bye," said Goodchild, " I have been over a lunatic 
asylum too, since I have been out." 

"He has been," exclaimed Thomas Idle, casting up his eyes, 
" over a lunatic asylum ! Not content with being as great an Ass 
as Captain Barclay in the pedestrian way, he makes a Lunacy 
Commissioner of himself — for nothing!" 

"An immense place," said Goodchild, "admirable offices, very 
good arrangements, very good attendants ; altogether a remarkable 
place." 

"And what did you see there?" asked Mr. Idle, adapting 
Hamlet's advice to the occasion, and assuming the virtue of in- 
terest, though he had it not. 

" The usual thing," said Francis Goodchild, with a sigh. • "Long 
groves of blighted men-and-women-trees ; interminable avenues of 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 377 

hopeless faces ; numbers, without the slightest power of really com- 
bining for any earthly purpose ; a society of human creatures who 
have nothing in common but that they have all lost the power of 
being humanly social with one another." 

" Take a glass of wine with me," said Thomas Idle, "and let us 
be social." 

" In one gallery, Tom," pursued Francis Goodchild, " which 
looked to me about the length of the Long Walk at Windsor, 
more or less " 

" Probably less," observed Thomas Idle. 

" In one gallery, which was otherwise clear of patients (for they 
were all out), there was a poor little dark-chinned, meagre man, 
with a perplexed brow and a pensive face, stooping low over the 
matting on the floor, and picking out with his thumb and fore- 
finger the course of its fibres. The afternoon sun was slanting in 
at the large end-window, and there were cross patches of light and 
shade all down the vista, made by the unseen windows and the 
open doors of the little sleeping cells on either side. In about the 
centre of the perspective, under an arch, regardless of the pleasant 
weather, regardless of the solitude, regardless of approaching foot- 
steps was the poor little dark-chinned, meagre man, poring over 
the matting. 'What are you doing there?' said my conductor, 
when w^e came to him. He looked up, and pointed to the matting. 
' I wouldn't do that, I think,' said my conductor, kindly ; ' if I 
were you, I would go and read, or I would lie down if I felt tired ; 
but I wouldn't do that.' The patient considered a moment, and 
vacantly answered, 'No, sir, I won't; I'll — I'll go and read,' and 
so he lamely shuffled away into one of the little rooms. I turned 
my head before we had gone many paces. He had already come 
out again, and was again poring over the matting, and tracking 
out its fibres with his thumb and forefinger. I stopped to look at 
him, and it came into my mind, that probably the course of those 
fibres as they plaited in and out, over and under, was the only 
course of things in the whole wide world that it was left to him 
to understand — that his darkening intellect had narrowed down 
to the small cleft of light which showed him, ' This piece was 
twisted this way, went in here, passed under, came out there, was 
carried on away here to the right where I now put my finger on it, 
and in this progress of events, the thing was made and came to 
be here.' Then, I wondered whether he looked into the matting, 
next, to see if it could show him anything of the process through 
which he came to be there, so strangely poring over it. Then, I 
thought how all of us, God help us ! in our different ways are 
poring over our bits of matting, blindly enough, and what confu- 



378 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPEENTICES. 

sions and mysteries we make in the pattern. I had a sadder 
fellow-feeling with the little dark-chinned, meagre man, by that 
time, and I came away." 

Mr. Idle diverting the conversation to grouse, custards, and 
bride-cake, Mr. Goodchild followed in the same direction. The 
bride-cake was as bilious and indigestible as if a real Bride had cut 
it, and the dinner it completed was an admirable performance. 

The house was a genuine old house of a very quaint description, 
teeming with old carvings, and beams, and panels, and having an 
excellent old staircase, with a gallery or upper staircase, cut off 
from it by a curious fence-work of old oak, or of the old Honduras 
Mahogany wood. It was, and is, and will be, for many a long year 
to come, a remarkably picturesque house ; and a certain grave mys- 
tery lurking in the depth of the old mahogany panels, as if they 
were so many deep pools of dark water — such, indeed, as they had 
been much among when they were trees — gave it a very myste- 
rious character after nightfall. 

When Mr. Goodchild and Mr. Idle had first alighted at the door, 
and stepped into the sombre handsome old hall, they had been 
received by half-a-dozen noiseless old men in black, all dressed 
exactly alike, who glided up the stairs with the obliging landlord 
and waiter — but without appearing to get into their way, or to 
mind whether they did or no — and who had filed oft* to the right 
and left on the old staircase, as the guests entered their sitting- 
room. It was then broad, bright day. But, Mr. Goodchild had 
said, when their door was shut, "Who on earth are those old 
men 1 " And afterwards, both on going out and coming in, he had 
noticed that there were no old men to be seen. 

Neither, had the old men, or any one of the old men, reappeared 
since, The two friends had passed a night in the house, but had 
seen nothing more of the old men. Mr. Goodchild, in rambling 
about it, had looked along passages, and glanced in at doorways, 
but had encountered no old men ; neither did it appear that any 
old men were, by any member of the establishment, missed or 
expected. 

Another odd circumstance impressed itself on their attention. 
It was, that the door of their sitting-room was never left untouched 
for a quarter of an hour. It was opened with hesitation, opened 
with confidence, opened a little way, opened a good way, — always 
clapped-to again without a word of explanation. They were read- 
ing, they were writing, they were eating, they were drinking, they 
were talking, they were dozing ; the door was always opened at an 
unexpected moment, and they looked towards it, and it was 
clapped-to again, and nobody was to be seen. When this had 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 379 

happened fifty times or so, Mr. Goodchild had said to his compan- 
ion, jestingly : " I begin to think, Tom, there was something wrong 
with those six old men." 

Night had come again, and they had been writing for two or 
three hours : writing, in short, a portion of the lazy notes from 
which these lazy sheets are taken. They had left off .writing, and 
glasses were on the table between them. The house was closed 
and quiet. Around the head of Thomas Idle, as he lay upon his 
sofa, hovered light wreaths of fragrant smoke. The temples of 
Francis Goodchild, as he leaned back in his chair, with his two 
hands clasped behind his head, and his legs crossed, were similarly 
decorated. 

They had been discussing several idle subjects of speculation, 
not omitting the strange old men, and were still so occupied, when 
Mr. Goodchild abruptly changed his attitude to wind up his watch. 
They were just becoming drowsy enough to be stopped in their 
talk by any such slight check. Thomas Idle, who was speaking 
at the moment, paused and said, " How goes it 1 " 

" One," said Goodchild. 

As if he had ordered One old man, and the order were promptly 
executed (truly, all orders were so, in that excellent hotel), the 
door opened, and One old man stood there. 

He did not come in, but stood with the door in his hand. 

" One of the six, Tom, at last ! " said Mr. Goodchild, in a sur- 
prised whisper. — " Sir, your pleasure ? " 

" Sir, 7/our pleasure ? " said the One old man. 

" I didn't ring." 

" The bell did," said the One old man. 

He said Bell, in a deep strong way, that would have expressed 
the church Bell. 

"I had the pleasure, I believe, of seeing you, yesterday?" said 
Goodchild. 

"I cannot undertake to say for certain," was the grim reply of 
the One old man. 

" I think you saw me. Did you not ? " 

" Saw you ? " said the old man. " yes, I saw you. But, I 
see many who never see me." 

A chilled, slow, earthy, fixed old man. A cadaverous old man 
of measured speech. An old man who seemed as unable to wink, 
as if his eyelids had been nailed to his forehead. An old man 
whose eyes — two spots of fire — had no more motion than if they 
had been connected with the back of his skull by screws driven 
through it, and riveted and bolted outside, among his grey hair. 

The night had turned so cold, to Mr. Goodchild's sensations, 



380 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

that he shivered. He remarked lightly, and half apologetically, 
" I think somebody is walking over my grave." 

" No," said the weird old man, " there is no one there." 

Mr. Goodchild looked at Idle, but Idle lay with his head 
enwreathed in smoke. 

" No one there ? " said Goodchild. 

" There is no one at your grave, I assure you," said the old man. 

He had come in and shut the door, and he now sat down. He 
did not bend himself to sit, as other people do, but seemed to 
sink bolt upright, as if in water, until the chair stopped him. 

" My friend, Mr. Idle," said Goodchild, extremely anxious to 
introduce a third person into the conversation. 

" I am," said the old man, without looking at him, " at Mr. 
Idle's service." 

" If you are an old inhabitant of this place," Francis Goodchild 
resumed : 

"Yes." 

" Perhaps you can decide a point my friend and I were in doubt 
upon, this morning. They hang condemned criminals at the 
Castle, I believe ? " 

" I believe so," said the old man. 

" Are their faces turned towards that noble prospect ? " 

"Your face is turned," replied the old man, " to the Castle wall. 
When you are tied up, you see its stones expanding and contracting 
violently, and a similar expansion and contraction seem to take 
place in your own head and breast. Then, there is a rush of fire 
and an earthquake, and the Castle springs into the air, and you 
tumble down a precipice." 

His cravat appeared to trouble him. He put his hand to his 
throat, and moved his neck from side to side. He w^as an old man 
of a swollen character of face, and his nose was immovably hitched 
up on one side, as if by a little hook inserted in that nostril. Mr. 
Goodchild felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and began to think the 
night was hot, and not cold. 

"A strong description, sir," he observed. 

" A strong sensation," the old man rejoined. 

Again, Mr. Goodchild looked to Mr. Thomas Idle ; but Thomas 
lay on his back with his face attentively turned towards the One old 
man, and made no sign. At this time Mr. Goodchild believed that 
he saw threads of fire stretch from the old man's eyes to his own, 
and there attach themselves. (Mr. Goodchild writes the present 
account of his experience, and, with the utmost solemnity, protests 
that he had the strongest sensation upon him of being forced to 
look at the old man along those two fiery films, from that moment.) 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 381 

"I must tell it to you," said the old man, with a ghastly and 
a stony stare. 

"What ? " asked Francis Goodchild. 

" You know where it took place. Yonder ! " 

Whether he pointed to the room above, or to the room below, 
or to any room in that old house, or to a room in some other old 
house in that old town, Mr. Goodchild was not, nor is, nor ever 
can be, sure. He was confused by the circumstance that the 
right forefinger of the One old man seemed to dip itself in one 
of the threads of fire, light itself, and make a fiery start in the 
air, as it pointed somewhere. Having pointed somewhere, it went 
out. 

" You know she was a Bride," said the old man. 

"I know they still send up Bride-cake," Mr. Goodchild faltered. 
" This is a very oppressive air." 

" She was a Bride," said the old man. " She was a fair, flaxen- 
haired, large-eyed girl, who had no character, no purpose. A weak, 
credulous, incapable, helpless nothing. Not like her mother. No, 
no. It was her father whose character she reflected. 

" Her mother had taken care to secure everything to herself, 
for her own life, when the father of this girl (a child at that time) 
died — of sheer helplessness ; no other disorder — and then He re- 
newed the acquaintance that had once subsisted between the mother 
and Him. He had been put aside for the flaxen-haired, large-eyed 
man (or nonentity) with Money. He could overlook that for Money. 
He wanted compensation in Money. 

" So, he returned to the side of that woman the mother, made 
love to her again, danced attendance on her, and submitted himself 
to her whims. She wreaked upon him every whim she had, or 
could invent. He bore it. And» the more he bore, the more he 
wanted compensation in Money, and the more he was resolved to 
have it. 

"But, lo! Before he got it, she cheated him. In one of her 
imperious states, she froze, and never thawed again. She put her 
hands to her head one night, uttered a cry, stiffened, lay in that 
attitude certain hours, and died. And he had got no compensation 
from her in Money, yet. Blight and Murrain on her ! Not a 
penny. 

"He had hated her throughout that second pursuit, and had 
longed for retaliation on her. He now counterfeited her signature 
to an instrument, leaving all she had to leave, to her daughter — 
ten years old then — to whom the property passed absolutely, and 
appointing himself the daughter's Guardian. When He slid it 
under the pillow of the bed on which she lay, He bent down in 



382 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

the deaf ear of Death, and whispered: ' Mistress Pride, I have 
determined a long time that, dead or alive, you must make me 
compensation in Money.' 

" So, now there were only two left. Which two were. He, and 
the fair flaxen-haired, large-eyed foolish daughter, who afterwards 
became the Bride. 

"He put her to school. In a secret, dark, oppressive, ancient 
house, he put her to school with a watchful and unscrupulous 
woman. 'My worthy lady,' he said, 'here is a mind to be 
formed ; will you help me to form it 1 ' She accepted the trust. 
For which she, too, wanted compensation in Money, and had it. 

" The girl was formed in the fear of him, and in the convic- 
tion, that there was no escape from him. She was taught, from 
the first, to regard him as her future husband — the man who must 
marry her — the destiny that overshadowed her — the appointed 
certainty that could never be evaded. The poor fool was soft white 
wax in their hands, and took the impression that they put upon 
her. It hardened with time. It became a part of herself In- 
separable from herself, and only to be torn away from her, by tear- 
ing life away from her. 

" Eleven years she had lived in the dark house and its gloomy 
garden. He was jealous of the very light and air getting to her, 
and they kept her close. He stopped the wide chimneys, shaded 
the little windows, left the strong-stemmed ivy to wander where 
it would over the house-front, the moss to accumulate on the un- 
trimmed fruit-trees in the red-walled garden, the weeds to over-run 
its green and yellow walks. He surrounded her with images of 
sorrow and desolation. He caused her to be filled with fears of the 
place and of the stories that were told of it, and then on pretext of 
correcting them, to be left in it in *solitude, or made to shrink about 
it in the dark. When her mind was most depressed and fullest 
of terrors, then, he would come out of one of the hiding-places from 
which he overlooked her, and present himself as her sole resource. 

" Thus, by being from her childhood the one embodiment her 
life presented to her of power to coerce and power to relieve, power 
to bind and power to loose, the ascendency over her weakness was 
secured. She was twenty-one years and twenty-one days old, when 
he brought her home to the gloomy house, his half-witted, fright- 
ened, and submissive Bride of three weeks. 

"He had dismissed the governess by that time — what he had 
left to do, he could best do alone — and they came back, upon a 
rainy night, to the scene of her long preparation. She turned to 
him upon the threshold, as the rain was dripping from the porch, 
and said ; 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 383 

" ' sir, it is the Death-watch ticking for me ! ' 

" ' Well ! ' he answered. ' And if it were ? ' 

" ' sir ! ' she returned to him, ' look kindly on me, and be 
merciful to me ! I beg your pardon. I will do anything you 
wish, if you will only forgive me ! ' 

" That had become the poor fool's constant song : ' I beg your 
pardon,' and ' Forgive me ! ' 

" She was not worth hating ; he felt nothing but contempt for 
her. But, she had long been in the way, and he had long been 
weary, and the work was near its end, and had to be worked out. 

" ' You fool,' he said. ' Go up the stairs ! ' 

" She obeyed very quickly, murmuring, ' I will do anything you 
wish ! ' When he came into the Bride's Chamber, having been 
a little retarded by the heavy fastenings of the great door (for 
they were alone in the house, and he had arranged that the people 
who attended on them should come and go in the day), he found 
her withdrawn to the furthest corner, and there standing pressed 
against the panelling as if she would have shrunk through it : her 
flaxen hair all wild about her face, and her large eyes staring at 
him in vague terror. 

" ' What are you afraid of? Come and sit down by me.' 

" ' I will do anything you wish. I beg your pardon, sir. 
Forgive me ! ' Her monotonous tune as usual. 

" ' Ellen, here is a writing that you must write out to-morrow, 
in your own hand. You may as well be seen by others, busily 
engaged upon it. When you have written it all fairly, and 
corrected all mistakes, call in any two people there may be about 
the house, and sign your name to it before them. Then, put it in 
your bosom to keep it safe, and when I sit here again to-morrow 
night, give it to me.' 

" ' I will do it all, with the greatest care. I will do anything 
you wish.' 

" 'Don't shake and tremble, then.' 

" ' I will try my utmost not to do it — if you will only forgive me ! ' 

" Next day, she sat down at her desk, and did as she had been 
told. He often passed in and out of the room, to observe her, 
and always saw her slowly and laboriously writing : repeating to 
herself the words she copied, in appearance quite mechanically, 
and without caring or endeavouring to comprehend them, so that 
she did lier task. He saw her follow the directions she had 
received, in all particulars ; and at night, when they were alone 
again in the same Bride's Chamber, and he drew his chair to the 
hearth, she timidly approached him from her distant seat, took 
the paper from her bosom, and gave it into his hand. 



384 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

" It secured all her possessions to him, in the event of her 
death. He put her before him, face to face, that he might look at 
her steadily; and he asked her, in so many plain words, neither 
fewer nor more, did she know that ? 

" There were spots of ink upon the bosom of her white dress, 
and they made her face look whiter and her eyes look larger as she 
nodded her head. There were spots of ink upon the hand with 
which she stood before him, nervously plaiting and folding her 
white skirts. 

" He took her by the arm, and looked her, yet more closely and 
steadily, in the face. ' Now, die ! I have done with you.' 

"She shrunk, and uttered a low, suppressed cry. 

" 'I am not going to kill you. I will not endanger my life for 
yours. Die ! ' 

" He sat before her in the gloomy Bride's Chamber, day after 
day, night after night, looking the word at her when he did not 
utter it. As often as her large unmeaning eyes were raised from 
the hands in which she rocked her head, to the stern figure, sitting 
with crossed arms and knitted forehead, in the chair, they read in 
it, ' Die ! ' When she dropped asleep in exhaustion, she was 
called back to shuddering consciousness, by the whisper, ' Die ! ' 
When she fell upon her old entreaty to be pardoned, she was 
answered, ' Die ! ' When she had out-watched and out-suffered 
the long night, and the rising sun flamed into the sombre room, 
she heard it hailed with, ' Another day and not dead? — -Die ! ' 

" Shut up in the deserted mansion, aloof from all mankind, and 
engaged alone in such a struggle without any respite, it came to 
this — that either he must die, or she. He knew it very well, 
and concentrated his strength against her feebleness. Hours upon 
hours he held her by the arm when her arm was black where he held 
it, and bade her Die ! 

" It was done, upon a windy morning, before sunrise. He 
computed the time to be half-past four ; but, his forgotten watch 
had run down, and he could not be sure. She had broken away 
from him in the night, with loud and sudden cries — the first of 
that kind to which she had given vent — and he had had to put 
his hands over her mouth. Since then, she had been quiet in the 
corner of the panelling where she had sunk down ; and he had left 
her, and had gone back with his folded arms and his knitted 
forehead to his chair. 

" Paler in the pale light, more colourless than ever in the 
leaden dawn, he saw her coming, trailing herself along the floor 
towards him — a white wreck of hair, and dress, and wild eyes, 
pushing itself on by an irresolute and bending hand. 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 385 

" ' 0, forgive me ! I will do anything. 0, sir, pray tell me 
I may live ! ' 

"'Die!' 

" ' Are you so resolved ? Is there no hope for me ? ' 

" ' Die ! ' 

"Her large eyes strained themselves with wonder and fear; 
wonder and fear changed to reproach ; reproach to blank nothing. 
It was done. He was not at first so sure it was done, but that the 
morning sun was hanging jewels in her hair — he saw the diamond, 
emerald, and ruby, glittering among it in little points, as he stood 
looking down at her — when he lifted her and laid her on her bed. 

"She was soon laid in the ground. And now they were all 
gone, and he had compensated himself well. 

" He had a mind to travel. Not that he meant to waste his 
Money, for he was a pinching man and liked his Money dearly 
(liked nothing else, indeed), but, that he had grown tired of the 
desolate house and wished to turn his back upon it and have done 
with it. But, the house was worth Money, and Money must not 
be thrown away. He determined to sell it before he went. That 
it might look the less wretched and bring a better price, he hired 
some labourers to work in the overgrown garden ; to cut out the 
dead wood, trim the ivy that drooped in heavy masses over the 
windows and gables, and clear the walks in which the weeds were 
growing mid-leg high. 

" He worked, himself, along with them. He worked later than 
they did, and, one evening at dusk, was left working alone, with 
his bill-hook in his hand. One autumn evening, when the Bride 
was five weeks dead. 

"'It grows too dark to work longer,' he said to himself, 'I 
must give over for the night.' 

" He detested the house, and was loath to enter it. He looked 
at the dark porch waiting for him like a tomb, and felt that it was 
an accursed house. Near to the porch, and near to where he 
stood, was a tree whose branches waved before the old bay-window 
of the Bride's Chamber, where it had been done. The tree swung 
suddenly, and made him start. It swung again, although the 
night was still. Looking up into it, he saw a figure among the 
branches. 

" It was the figure of a young man. The face looked down, as 
his looked up ; the branches cracked and swayed ; the figure rap- 
idly descended, and slid upon its feet before him. A slender youth 
of about her age, with long light brown hair. 

" ' What thief are you ? ' he said, seizing the youth by the collar. 

" The young man, in shaking himself free, swung him a blow 

2c 



386 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

with his arm across the face and throat. They closed, but the 
young man got from him and stepped back, crying, with great 
eagerness and horror, ' Don't touch me ! I would as lieve be 
touched by the Devil ! ' 

" He stood still, with his bill-hook in his hand, looking at the 
young man. For, the young man's look was the counterpart of 
her last look, and he had not expected ever to see that again. 

"'I am no thief. Even if I were, I would not have a coin of 
your wealth, if it would buy me the Indies. You murderer ! ' 

"'What!' 

"'I climbed it,' said the young man, pointing up into the tree, 
'for the first time, nigh four years ago. I climbed it, to look at 
her. I saw her. I spoke to her. I have climbed it, many a time, 
to watch and listen for her. I was a boy, hidden among its leaves, 
when from that bay-window she gave me this ! ' 

" He showed a tress of flaxen hair, tied with a mourning ribbon. 

" ' Her life,' said the young man, ' was a life of mourning. She 
gave me this, as a token of it, and a sign that she was dead to 
every one but you. If I had been older, if I had seen her sooner, 
I might have saved her from you. But, she was fast in the web 
when I first climbed the tree, and what could I do then to break 
it!' 

" In saying those words, he burst into a fit of sobbing and cry- 
ing : weakly at first, then passionately. 

" ' Murderer ! I climbed the tree on the night when you brought 
her back. I heard her, from the tree, speak of the Death-watch at 
the door. I was three times in the tree while you were shut up 
with her, slowly killing her. I saw her, from the tree, lie dead 
upon her bed. I have watched you, from the tree, for proofs and 
traces of your guilt. The manner of it, is a mystery to me yet, but 
I will pursue you until you have rendered up your life to the hang- 
man. You shall never, until then, be rid of me. I loved her ! 
I can know no relenting towards you. Murderer, I loved her ! ' 

" The youth was bare-headed, his hat having fluttered away in his 
descent from the tree. He moved towards the gate. He had to 
pass — Him — to get to it. There was breadth for two old- 
fashioned carriages abreast ; and the youth's abhorrence, openly ex- 
pressed in every feature of his face and limb of his body, and very 
hard to bear, had verge enough to keep itself at a distance in. He 
(by which I mean the other) liad not stirred hand or foot, since he 
had stood still to look at the boy. He faced round, now, to follow 
him with his eyes. As the back of the bare light brown head was 
turned to him, he saw a red curve stretch from his hand to it. He 
knew, before he threw the bill-hook, where it had alighted — I say, 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 387 

had alighted, and not, would alight ; for, to his clear perception 
the thing was done before he did it. It cleft the head, and it 
remained there, and the boy lay on his face. 

" He buried the body in the night, at the foot of the tree. As 
soon as it was light in the morning, he worked at turning up all 
the ground near the tree, and hacking and hewing at the neigh- 
bouring bushes and undergrowth. When the labourers came, there 
was nothing suspicious, and nothing suspected. 

"But, he had, in a moment, defeated all his precautious, and 
destroyed the triumph of the scheme he had so long concerted, and 
so successfully worked out. He had got rid of the Bride, and had 
acquired her fortune without endangering his life ; bat now, for a 
death by which he had gained nothing, he had evermore to live 
with a rope around his neck. 

" Beyond this, he was chained to the house of gloom and horror, 
which he could not endure. Being afraid to sell it or to quit it, 
lest discovery should be made, he was forced to live in it. He 
hired two old people, man and wife, for his servants ; and dwelt 
in it, and dreaded it. His great difficulty, for a long time, was the 
garden. Whether he should keep it trim, whether he should suffer 
it to fall into its former state of neglect, what would be the least 
likely way of attracting attention to it ? 

" He took the middle course of gardening, himself, in his even- 
ing leisure, and of then calling the old serving-man to help him ; 
but, of never letting him work there alone. And he made himself 
an arbour over against the tree, where he could sit and see that it 
was safe. 

" As the seasons changed, and the tree changed, his mind per- 
ceived dangers that were always changing. In the leafy time, he 
perceived that the upper boughs were growing into the form of the 
young man — that they made the shape of him exactly, sitting in 
a forked branch swinging in tlie wind. In the time of the falling 
leaves, he perceived that they came down from the tree, forming 
tell-tale letters on the path, or that they had a tendency to heap 
themselves into a churchyard-mound above the grave. In the 
winter, when the tree was bare, he perceived that the boughs 
swung at him the ghost of the blow the young man had given, and 
that they threatened him openly. In the spring, when the sap 
was mounting in the trunk, he asked himself, were the dried-up 
particles of blood mounting with it : to make out more obviously 
this year tlian last, the leaf-screened figure of the young man, 
swinging in the wind ? 

" However, he turned his Money over and over, and still over. 
He was in the dark trade, the gold-dust trade, and most secret 



388 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

trades that yielded great returns. In ten years, he had turned his 
Money over, so many times, that the traders and shippers who 
had dealings with him, absolutely did not lie — for once — when 
they declared that he had increased his fortune, Twelve Hundred 
Per Cent. 

" He possessed his riches one hundred years ago, when people 
could be lost easily. He had heard who the youth was, from hear- 
ing of the search that was made after him ; but, it died away, and 
the youth was forgotten. 

" The annual round of changes in the tree had been repeated ten 
times since the night of the burial at its foot, when there was a 
great thunder-storm over this place. It broke at midnight, and 
raged until morning. The first intelligence he heard from his old 
serving-man that morning, was, that the tree had been struck by 
Lightning. 

"It had been riven down the stem, in a very surprising manner, 
and the stem lay in two blighted shafts : one resting against the 
house, and one against a portion of the old red garden-wall in which 
its fall had made a gap. The fissure went down the tree to a 
little above the earth, and there stopped. There was great curi- 
osity to see the tree, and, with most of his former fears revived, he 
sat in his arbour — grown quite an old man — watching the people 
who came to see it. 

"They quickly began to come, in such dangerous numbers, 
that he closed his garden-gate and refused to admit any more. 
But, there were certain men of science who travelled from a dis- 
tance to examine the tree, and, in an evil hour, he let them in — 
Blight and Murrain on them, let them in ! 

" They wanted to dig up the ruin by the roots, and closely 
examine it, and the earth about it. Never, while he lived ! 
They offered money for it. They ! Men of science, whom he 
could have bought by the gross, with a scratch of his pen ! He 
showed them the garden-gate again, and locked and barred it. 

"But they were bent on doing what they wanted to do, and 
they bribed the old serving-man — a thankless wretch who regu- 
larly complained when he received his wages, of being underpaid 
— and they stole into the garden by night with their lanterns, 
picks, and shovels, and fell to at the tree. He was lying in a 
turret-room on the other side of the house (the Bride's Chamber 
had been unoccupied ever since), but he soon dreamed of picks and 
shovels, and got up. 

" He came to an upper window on that side, whence he could 
see their lanterns, and them, and the loose earth in a heap which 
he had himself disturbed and put back, when it was last turned 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 389 

to the air. It was found ! They had that minute lighted on it. 
They were all bending over it. One of them said, ' The skull is 
fractured ; ' and another, ' See here the bones ; ' and another, ' See 
here the clothes ; ' and then the first struck in again, and said, ' A 
rusty bill-hook ! ' 

" He became sensible, next day, that he was already put under 
a strict watch, and that he could go nowhere without being followed. 
Before a week was out, he was taken and laid in hold. The cir- 
cumstances were gradually pieced together against him, with a 
desperate malignity, and an appalling ingenuity. But, see the 
justice of men, and how it was extended to him ! He was further 
accused of having poisoned that girl in the Bride's Chamber. He, 
who had carefully and expressly avoided imperilling a hair of his 
head for her, and who had seen her die of her own incapacity ! 

" There was doubt for which of the two murders he should be 
first tried ; but, the real one was chosen, and he was found Guilty, 
and cast for Death. Bloodthirsty wretches ! They would have 
made him Guilty of anything, so set they were upon having his life. 

" His money could do nothing to save him, and he was hanged. 
/ am He, and I was hanged at Lancaster Castle with my face to 
the wall, a hundred years ago ! " 

At this terrific announcement, Mr. Goodchild tried to rise and 
cry out. But, the two fiery lines extending from the old man's 
eyes to his own, kept him down, and he could not utter a sound. 
His sense of hearing, however, was acute, and he could hear the 
clock strike Two. No sooner had he heard the clock strike Two, 
than he saw before him Two old men ! 

Two. 

The eyes of each, connected with his eyes by two films of fire : 
each, exactly like the other : each, addressing him at precisely one 
and the same instant : each, gnashing the same teeth in the same 
head, with the same twitched nostril above them, and the same 
suffused expression around it. Two old men. Differing in noth- 
ing, equally distinct to the sight, the copy no fainter than the 
original, the second as real as the first. 

"At what time," said the Two old men, "did you arrive at the 
door below ? " 

"At Six." 

" And there were Six old men upon the stairs ! " 

Mr. Goodchild having wiped the perspiration from his brow, or 
tried to do it, the Two old men proceeded in one voice, and in the 
singular number : 



390 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

" I had been anatomised, but had not yet had my skeleton put 
together and rehung on an iron hook, when it began to be whis- 
pered that the Bride's Chamber was haunted. It ivas haunted, and 
I was there. 

" We were there. She and I were there. I, in the chair upon 
the hearth ; she, a white wTeck again, trailing itself towards me 
on the floor. But, I was the speaker no more, and the one word 
that she said to me from midnight until dawn was, ' Live ! ' 

" The youth was there, likewise. In the tree outside the window. 
Coming and going in the moonlight, as the tree bent and gave. 
He has, ever since, been there, peeping in at me in my torment ; 
revealing to me by snatches, in the pale lights and slaty shadows 
where he comes and goes, bare-headed — a bill-hook, standing edge- 
wise in his hair. 

" In the Bride's Chamber, every night from midnight until dawn 
— one month in the year excepted, as I am going to tell you — he 
hides in the tree, and she comes towards me on the floor ; always 
approaching ; never coming nearer ; always visible as if by moon- 
light, whether the moon shines or no; always saying, from raid- 
night until dawn, her one word, ' Live ! ' 

" But, in the month wherein I was forced out of this life — this 
present month of thirty days — the Bride's Chamber is empty and 
quiet. Not so my old dungeon. Not so the rooms where I was 
restless and afraid, ten years. Both are fitfully *haunted then. At 
One in the morning, I am what you saw me when the clock struck 
that hour — One old man. At Two in the morning, I am Two 
old men. At Three, I am Three. By Twelve at noon, I am 
Twelve old men. One for every hundred per cent, of old gain. 
Every one of the Twelve, with Twelve times my old power of 
suffering and agony. From that hour until Twelve at night, I, 
Twelve old men in anguish and fearful foreboding, wait for the 
coming of the executioner. At Twelve at night, I, Twelve old 
men turned off", swing invisible outside Lancaster Castle, with 
Twelve faces to the wall ! 

" When the Bride's Chamber was first haunted, it was known 
to me that this punishment would never cease, until I could make 
its nature, and my story, known to two living men together. I 
waited for the coming of two living men together into the Bride's 
Chamber, years upon years. It was infused into my knowledge 
(of the means I am ignorant) that if two living men, with their 
eyes open, could be in the Bride's Chamber at One in the morning, 
they would see me sitting in my chair. 

"At length, the whispers that the room was spiritually troubled, 
brought two men to try the adventure. I was scarcely struck upon 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 891 

the hearth at midnight (I came there as if the Lightning blasted 
me into being), when I heard them ascending the stairs. Next, I 
saw them enter. One of them was a bold, gay, active man, in the 
prime of life, some five and forty years of age ; the other, a dozen 
years younger. They brought provisions with them in a basket, 
and bottles. A young woman accompanied them, with w^ood and 
coals for the lighting of the fire. When she had lighted it, the 
bold, gay, active man accompanied her along the gallery outside 
the room, to see her safely down the staircase, and came back 
laughing. 

" He locked the door, examined the chamber, put out the con- 
tents of the basket on the table before the fire — little recking of 
me, in my appointed station on the hearth, close to him — and 
filled the glasses, and ate and drank. His companion did the 
same, and was as cheerful and confident as he : though he was the 
leader. When they had supped, they laid pistols on the table, 
turned to the fire, and began to smoke their pipes of foreign make. 

" They had travelled together, and had been much together, and 
had an abundance of subjects in common. In the midst of their 
talking and laughing, the younger man made a reference to the 
leader's being always ready for any adventure; that one, or any 
other. He replied in these words : 

" ' Not quite so, Dick ; if I am afraid of nothing else, I am afraid 
of myself 

"His companion seeming to grow a little dull, asked him, in 
what sense ? How ? 

" 'Why, thus,' he returned. 'Here is a Ghost to be disproved. 
Well ! I cannot answer for what my fancy might do if I were 
alone here, or what tricks my senses might play with me if they 
had me to themselves. But, in company with another man, and 
especially with you, Dick, I would consent to outface all the 
Ghosts that were ever told of in the universe.' 

" ' I had not the vanity to suppose that I was of so much im- 
portance to-night,' said the other. 

" ' Of so much,' rejoined the leader, more seriously than he had 
spoken yet, 'that I would, for the reason I have given, on no 
account have undertaken to pass the night here alone.' 

" It was within a few minutes of One. The head of the younger 
man had drooped when he made his last remark, and it drooped 
lower now. 

" ' Keep awake, Dick ! ' said the leader, gaily. ' The small hours 
are the worst.' 

" He tried, but his head drooped again. 

" ' Dick ! ' urged the leader. ' Keep awake ! ' 



392 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

'"I can't,' he indistinctly muttered. ' I don't know what strange 
influence is stealing over me. I can't.' 

" His companion looked at him with a sudden horror, and I, in 
my diff'erent way, felt a new horror also ; for, it was on the stroke 
of One, and I felt that the second watcher was yielding to me, and 
that the curse was upon me that I must send him to sleep. 

" ' Get up and walk, Dick ! ' cried the leader. ' Try ! ' 

" It was in vain to go behind the slumberer's chair and shake 
him. One o'clock sounded, and I was present to the elder man, 
and he stood transfixed before me. 

" To him alone, I was obliged to relate my story, without hope 
of benefit. To him alone, I was an awful phantom making a quite 
useless confession. I foresee it will ever be the same. The two 
living men together will never come to release me. When I appear, 
the senses of one of the two will be locked in sleep; he will nei- 
ther see nor hear me ; my communication will ever be made to a 
solitary listener, and will ever be unserviceable. Woe ! Woe ! 
Woe ! " 

As the Two old men, with these words, wrung their hands, it 
shot into Mr. Goodchild's mind that he was in the terrible situa- 
tion of being virtually alone with the spectre, and that Mr. Idle's 
immovability was explained by his having been charmed asleep at 
One o'clock. In the terror of this sudden discovery which produced 
an indescribable dread, he struggled so hard to get free from the 
four fiery threads, that he snapped them, after he had pulled them 
out to a great width. Being then out of bonds, he caught up Mr. 
Idle from the sofa and rushed down-stairs with him. 

"What are you about, Francis?" demanded Mr. Idle. "My 
bedroom is not down here. What the deuce are you carrying me 
at all for "? I can walk with a stick now. I don't want to be car- 
ried. Put me down." 

Mr. Goodchild put him down in the old hall, and looked about 
him wildly. 

"What are you doing? Idiotically plunging at your own sex, 
and rescuing them or perishing in the attempt 1 " asked Mr. Idle, 
in a highly petulant state. 

" The One old man ! " cried Mr. Goodchild, distractedly, — " and 
the Two old men ! " 

Mr. Idle deigned no other reply than " The One old woman, I 
think you mean," as he began hobbling his way back up the stair- 
case, with the assistance of its broad balustrade. 

"I assure you, Tom," began Mr. Goodchild, attending at his 
side, " that since you fell asleep " 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 893 

" Come, I like that ! " said Thomas Idle, " I haven't closed an 
eye ! " 

With the peculiar sensitiveness on the subject of the disgraceful 
action of going to sleep out of bed, which is the lot of all mankind, 
Mr. Idle persisted in this declaration. The same peculiar sensitive- 
ness impelled Mr. Goodchild, on being taxed with the same crime, 
to repudiate it with honourable resentment. The settlement of the 
question of The One old man and The Two old men was thus pres- 
ently complicated, and soon made quite impracticable. Mr. Idle 
said it was all Bride-cake, and fragments, newly arranged, of things 
seen and thought about in the day. Mr. Goodchild said how 
could that be, when he hadn't been asleep, and what right could 
Mr. Idle have to say so, who had been asleep ? Mr. Idle said he 
had never been asleep, and never did go to sleep, and that Mr. 
Goodchild, as a general rule, was always asleep. They consequently 
parted for the rest of the night, at their bedroom doors, a little 
ruffled. Mr. Goodchild's last words were, that he had had, in that 
real and tangible old sitting-room of that real and tangible old Inn 
(he supposed Mr. Idle denied its existence ? ), every sensation and 
experience, the present record of which is now within a line or two 
of completion ; and that he would write it out and print it every 
word. Mr. Idle returned that he might if he liked — and he did 
like, and has now done it. 



CHAPTER V. 

Two of the many passengers by a certain late Sunday evening 
train, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Goodchild, yielded up 
their tickets at a little rotten platform (converted into artificial 
touch-wood by smoke and ashes), deep in the manufacturing bosom 
of Yorkshire. A mysterious bosom it appeared, upon a damp, 
dark, Sunday night, dashed through in the train to the music of 
the whirling w^heels, the panting of the engine, and the part-sing- 
ing of hundreds of third-class excursionists, whose vocal efforts 
"bobbed arayound " from sacred to profane, from hymns, to our 
transatlantic sisters the Yankee Gal and Mairy Anne, in a remark- 
able way. There seemed to have been some large vocal gathering 
near to every lonely station on the line. No town was visible, no 
village was visible, no light was visible ; but, a multitude got out 
singing, and a multitude got in singing, and the second multitude 
took up the hymns, and adopted our transatlantic sisters, and sang 
of their own egregious wickedness, and of their bobbing arayound, 



394 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

and of how the ship it was ready and the wind it was fair, and 
they were bayound for the sea, Mairy Anne, until they in their 
turn became a getting-out multitude, and were replaced by another 
getting-in multitude, who did the same. And at every station, 
the getting-in multitude, with an artistic reference to the com- 
pleteness of their chorus, incessantly cried, as with one voice while 
scuffling into the carriages, " We mun aa' gang toogither ! " 

The singing and the multitudes had trailed otf as the lonely 
places were left and the great towns were neared, and the way 
had lain as silently as a train's way ever can, over the vague 
black streets of the great gulfs of towns, and among their branch- 
less woods of vague black chimneys. These towns looked, in the 
cinderous wet, as though they had one and all been on fire and 
were just put out — a dreary and quenched panorama, many miles 
long. 

Thus, Thomas and Francis got to Leeds ; of which enterprising 
and important commercial centre it may be observed with delicacy, 
that you must either like it very much or not at all. Next day, 
the first of the Race- Week, they took train to Doncaster. 

And instantly the character, both of travellers and of luggage, 
entirely changed, and no other business than race-business any 
longer existed on the face of the earth. The talk was all of 
horses and "John Scott." Guards whispered behind their hands 
to station-masters, of horses and John Scott. Men in cut-away 
coats and speckled cravats fastened with peculiar pins, and with 
the large bones of their legs developed under tight trousers, so that 
they should look as much as possible like horses' legs, paced up 
and down by twos at junction-stations, speaking low and moodily 
of horses and John Scott. The young clergyman in the black 
strait-waistcoat, who occupied the middle seat of the carriage, 
expounded in his peculiar pulpit-accent to the young and lovely 
Reverend Mrs. Crinoline, who occupied the opposite middle-seat, 
a few passages of rumour relative to " Oartheth, my love, and 
Mithter John Eth-COTT." A bandy vagabond, with a head like 
a Dutch cheese, in a fustian stable-suit, attending on a horse-box 
and going about the platforms with a halter hanging round his 
neck like a Calais burgher of the ancient period much degen- 
erated, was courted by the best society, by reason of what he had 
to hint, when not engaged in eating straw, concerning "t'harses 
and Joon Scott." The engine-driver himself, as he applied one eye 
to his large stationary double-eye-glass on the engine, seemed to 
keep the other open, sideways, upon horses and John Scott. 

Breaks and barriers at Doncaster station to keep the crowd off; 
temporary wooden avenues of ingress and egress, to help the crowd 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 395 

on. Forty extra porters sent down for this present blessed Race- 
Week, and all of them making up their betting-books in the lamp- 
room or somewhere else, and none of them to come and touch the 
luggage. Travellers disgorged into an open space, a howling wilder- 
ness of idle men. All work but race-work at a stand-still ; all men 
at a stand-still. " Ey my word ! Deant ask noon o' us to help 
wi' t' luggage. Bock your opinion loike a mon. Coom ! Dang it, 
coom, t'harses and Joon Scott ! " In the midst of the idle men, all 
the fly horses and omnibus horses of Doncaster and parts adjacent, 
rampant, rearing, backing, plunging, shying — apparently the result 
of their hearing of nothing but their own order and John Scott. 

Grand Dramatic Company from London for the Race- Week. 
Poses Plastiques in the Grand Assembly Room up the Stable-Yard 
at seven and nine each evening, for the Race-Week. Grand Alli- 
ance Circus in the field beyond the bridge, for the Race-Week. 
Grand Exhibition of Aztec Lilliputians, important to all who want 
to be horrified cheap, for the Race- Week. Lodgings, grand and not 
grand, but all at grand prices, ranging from ten pounds to twenty, 
for the Grand Race- Week ! 

Rendered giddy enough by these things. Messieurs Idle and 
Goodchild repaired to the quarters they had secured beforehand, 
and Mr. Goodchild looked down from the window into the surging 
street. 

"By heaven, Tom !" cried he, after contemplating it, "I am in 
the Lunatic Asylum again, and these are all mad people under the 
charge of a body of designing keepers ! " 

All through the Race-Week, Mr. Goodchild never divested him- 
self of this idea. Every day he looked out of window, with some- 
thing of the dread of Lemuel Gulliver looking down at men after 
he returned home from the horse-country ; and every day he saw 
the Lunatics, horse-mad, betting-mad, drunken-mad, vice-mad, and 
the designing Keepers always after them. The idea pervaded, 
like the second colour in shot-silk, the whole of Mr. Goodchild's 
impressions. They were much as follows : 

Monday, mid-day. Races not to begin until to-morrow, but all 
the mob-Lunatics out, crowding the pavements of the one main 
street of pretty and pleasant Doncaster, crowding the road, particu- 
larly crowding the outside of the Betting Rooms, whooping and 
shouting loudly after all passing vehicles. Frightened lunatic horses 
occasionally running away, with infinite clatter. All degrees of 
men, from peers to paupers, betting incessantly. Keepers very 
watchful, and taking all good chances. An awful family likeness 
among the Keepers, to Mr. Palmer and Mr. Thurtell. With some 
knowledge of expression and some acquaintance with heads (thus 



396 THE LAZY TOUR OP TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

writes Mr. Goodchild), I never have seen anywhere, so many repe- 
titions of one class of countenance and one character of head (both 
evil) as in this street at this time. Cunning, covetousness, secrecy, 
cold calculation, hard callousness and dire insensibility, are the uni- 
form Keeper characteristics. Mr. Palmer passes me five times in 
five minutes, and, as I go down the street, the back of Mr. Thur- 
tell's skull is always going on before me. 

Monday evening. Town lighted up; more Lunatics out than 
ever; a complete choke and stoppage of the thoroughfare outside 
the Betting Rooms. Keepers, having dined, pervade the Betting 
Rooms, and sharply snap at the moneyed Lunatics. Some Keep- 
ers flushed with drink, and some not, but all close and calculating. 
A vague echoing roar of "t'harses" and "t'races" always rising in 
the air, until midnight, at about which period it dies away in occa- 
sional drunken songs and straggling yells. But, all night, some 
unmannerly drinking-house in the neighbourhood opens its mouth 
at intervals and spits out a man too drunk to be retained : who 
thereupon makes what uproarious protest may be left in him, and 
either falls asleep where he tumbles, or is carried off* in custody. 

Tuesday morning, at daybreak. A sudden rising, as it were out 
of the earth, of all the obscene creatures, who sell "correct cards of 
the races." They may have been coiled in corners, or sleeping on 
door-steps, and, having all passed the night under the same set of 
circumstances, may all want to circulate their blood at the same 
time ; but, however that may be, they spring into existence all at 
once and together, as though a new Cadmus had sown a race-horse's 
teeth. There is nobody up, to buy the cards ; but, the cards are 
madly cried. There is no patronage to quarrel for; but, they 
madly quarrel and fight. Conspicuous among these hyaenas, as 
breakfast-time discloses, is a fearful creature in the general sem- 
blance of a man : shaken off" his next-to-no legs by drink and dev- 
ilry, bare-headed and bare-footed, with a great shock of hair like a 
horrible broom, and nothing on him but a ragged pair of trousers 
and a pink glazed-calico coat — made on him — so very tight that it 
is as evident that he could never take it off", as that he never does. 
This hideous apparition, inconceivably drunk, has a terrible power 
of making a gong-like imitation of the braying of an ass : which 
feat requires that he should lay his right jaw in his begrimed right 
paw, double himself up, and shake his bray out of himself, with 
much staggering on his next-to-no legs, and much twirling of his 
horrible broom, as if it were a mop. From the present minute, 
when he comes in sight holding up his cards to the windows, and 
hoarsely proposing purchase to My Lord, Your Excellenc}'', Colonel, 
the Noble Captain, and Your Honourable Worship — from the pres- 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 397 

ent minute until the Grand Race- Week is finished, at all hours of 
the morning, evening, day, and night, shall the town reverberate, 
at capricious intervals, to the brays of this frightful animal the 
Gong-Donkey. 

No very great racing to-day, so no very great amount of vehicles : 
though there is a good sprinkling, too : from farmers' carts and 
gigs, to carriages with post-horses and to fours-in-hand, mostly 
coming by the road from York, and passing on straight through 
the main street to the Course. A walk in the wrong direction may 
be a better thing for Mr. Goodchild to-day than the Course, so he 
w^alks in the wrong direction. Everybody gone to the races. Only 
children in the street. Grand Alliance Circus deserted ; not one 
Star- Rider left; omnibus which forms the Pay-Place, having on 
separate panels Pay here for the Boxes, Pay here for the Pit, Pay 
here for the Gallery, hove down in a corner and locked up ; nobody 
near the tent but the man on his knees on the grass, who is making 
the paper balloons for the Star young gentlemen to jump through to- 
night. A pleasant road, pleasantly wooded. No labourers work- 
ing in the fields ; all gone " t'races." The few late winders of 
their way "t'races," who are yet left driving on the road, stare 
in amazement at the recluse who is not going " t'races." Roadside 
innkeeper has gone "t'races." Turnpike-man has gone "t'races." 
His thrifty wife, washing clothes at the toll-house door, is going 
" t'races " to-morrow. Perhaps there may be no one left to take the 
toll to-morrow ; who knows ? Though assuredly that would be 
neither turnpike-like, nor Yorkshire-like. The very wind and dust 
seem to be hurrying "t'races," as they briskly pass the only way- 
farer on the road. In the distance, the Railway Engine, waiting at 
the town-end, shrieks despairingly. Nothing but the difficulty of 
getting off" the Line, restrains that Engine from going " t'races," too, 
it is very clear. 

At night, more Lunatics out than last night — and more Keep- 
ers. The latter very active at the Betting Rooms, the street in 
front of which is now impassable. Mr. Palmer as before. Mr. 
Thurtell as before. Roar and uproar as before. Gradual sub- 
sidence as before. Unmannerly drinking-house expectorates as 
before. Drunken negro-melodists, Gong-donkey, and correct cards, 
in the night. 

On Wednesday morning, the morning of the great St. Leger, it 
becomes apparent that there has been a great influx since yesterday, 
both of Lunatics and Keepers. The families of the tradesmen over 
the way are no longer within human ken ; their places know them 
no more ; ten, fifteen, and twenty guinea-lodgers fill them. At the 
pastry-cook's second-floor window, a Keeper is brushing Mr. Thur- 



398 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

tell's hair — thinking it his own. In the wax-chandler's attic, 
another Keeper is putting on Mr. Palmer's braces. In the gun- 
smith's nursery, a Lunatic is shaving himself. In the serious 
stationer's best sitting-room, three Lunatics are taking a combina- 
tion-breakfast, praising the (cook's) devil, and drinking neat brandy 
in an atmosphere of last midnight's cigars. No family sanctuary 
is free from our Angelic messengers — we put up at the Angel — 
who in the guise of extra waiters for the grand Race- Week, rattle 
in and out of the most secret chambers of everybody's house, with 
dishes and tin covers, decanters, soda-water bottles, and glasses. 
An hour later. Down the street and up the street, as far as eyes 
can see and a good deal farther, there is a dense crowd ; outside 
the Betting Rooms it is like a great struggle at a theatre door — 
in the days of theatres ; or at the vestibule of the Spurgeon temple 
— in the days of Spurgeon. An hour later. Fusing into this 
crowd, and somehow getting through it, are all kinds of convey- 
ances, and all kinds of foot-passengers; carts, with brick-makers 
and brick-makeresses jolting up and down on planks ; drags, with 
the needful grooms behind, sitting cross-armed in the needful man- 
ner, and slanting themselves backward from the soles of their boots 
at the needful angle ; postboys, in the shining hats and smart 
jackets of the olden time, when stokers were not ; beautiful York- 
shire horses, gallantly driven by their own breeders and masters. 
Under every pole, and every shaft, and every horse, and every 
wheel as it would seem, the Gong-donkey — metallically braying, 
when not struggling for life, or whipped out of the way. 

By one o'clock, all this stir has gone out of the streets, and there 
is no one left in them but Francis Goodchild. Francis Goodchild 
will not be left in them long ; for, he too is on his way " t'races." 

A most beautiful sight, Francis Goodchild finds "t'races" to be, 
when he has left fair Doncaster behind him, and comes out on the 
free course, with its agreeable prospect, its quaint Red House oddly 
changing and turning as Francis turns, its green grass, and fresh 
heath. A free course and an easy one, where Francis can roll 
smoothly where he will, and can choose between the start, or the 
coming-in, or the turn behind the brow of the hill, or any out-of- 
the-way point where he lists to see the throbbing horses straining 
every nerve, and making the sympathetic earth throb as they come 
by. Francis much delights to be, not in the Grand Stand, but 
where he can see it, rising against the sky with its vast tiers of 
little white dots of faces, and its last high rows and corners of 
people, looking like pins stuck into an enormous pin-cushion — 
not quite so symmetrically as his orderly eye could wish, when 
people change or go away. When the race is nearly run out, it is 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 399 

as good as the race to him to see the flutter among the pins, and the 
change in them from dark to light, as hats are taken off and waved. 
Not less full of interest, the loud anticipation of the winner's name, 
the swelling, and the final, roar; then, the quick dropping of all the 
pins out of their places, the revelation of the shape of the bare pin- 
cushion, and the closing-in of the whole host of Lunatics and Keep- 
ers, in the rear of the three horses with bright-coloured riders, who 
have not yet quite subdued their gallop though the contest is over. 

Mr. Goodchild would appear to have been by no means free from 
lunacy himself at "t'races," though not of the prevalent kind. He 
is suspected by Mr. Idle to have fallen into a dreadful state con- 
cerning a pair of little lilac gloves and a little bonnet that he saw 
there. Mr. Idle asserts, that he did afterwards repeat at the 
Angel, with an appearance of being lunatically seized, some rhap- 
sody to the following effect : "0 little lilac gloves ! And win- 
ning little bonnet, making in conjunction with her golden hair 
quite a Glory in the sunlight round the pretty head, why anything 
in the world but you and me ! Why may not this day's running 
— of horses, to all the rest: of precious sands of life to me — be 
prolonged through an everlasting autumn-sunshine, without a sun- 
set ! Slave of the Lamp, or Ring, strike me yonder gallant eques- 
trian Clerk of the Course, in the scarlet coat, motionless on the 
green grass for ages ! Friendly Devil on Two Sticks, for ten times 
ten thousand years, keep Blink-Bonny jibbing at the post, and let 
us have no start ! Arab drums, powerful of old to summon Genii 
in the desert, sound of yourselves and raise a troop for me in the 
desert of my heart, which shall so enchant this dusty barouche 
(with a conspicuous excise-plate, resembling the Collector's door- 
plate at a turnpike), that I, within it, loving the little lilac gloves, 
the winning little bonnet, and the dear unknown-wearer with the 
golden hair, may wait by her side for ever, to see a Great St. 
Leger that shall never be run ! " 

Thursday morning. After a tremendous night of crowding, 
shouting, drinking-house expectoration. Gong-donkey, and correct 
cards. Symptoms of yesterday's gains in the way of drink, and of 
yesterday's losses in the way of money, abundant. Money-losses 
very great. As usual, nobody seems to have won ; but, large losses 
and many losers are unquestionable facts. Both Lunatics and 
Keepers, in general very low. Several of both kinds look in at the 
chemist's while Mr. Goodchild is making a purchase there, to be 
" picked up." One red-eyed Lunatic, flushed, faded, and disordered, 
enters hurriedly and cries savagely, " Hond us a gloss of sal vola- 
tile in wather, or soom dommed thing o' thot sart ! " Faces at 
the Betting Rooms very long, and a tendency to bite nails observ- 



400 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

able. Keepers likewise given this morning to standing about 
solitary, with their hands in their pockets, looking down at their 
boots as they fit them into cracks of the pavement, arid then look- 
ing up whistling and walking away. Grand Alliance Circus out, 
in procession ; buxom lady-member of Grand Alliance, in crimson 
riding-habit, fresher to look at, even in her paint under the day 
sky, than the cheeks of Lunatics or Keepers. Spanish Cavalier 
appears to have lost yesterday, and jingles his bossed bridle with 
disgust, as if he were paying. Reaction also apparent at the 
Guildhall opposite, whence certain pickpockets come out handcuft'ed 
together, with that peculiar walk which is never seen under any 
other circumstances — a walk expressive of going to jail, game, but 
still of jail being in bad taste and arbitrary, and how would you 
like it if it was you instead of me, as it ought to be ! Mid-day. 
Town filled as yesterday, but not so full ; and emptied as yester- 
day, but not so empty. In the evening. Angel ordinary where 
every Lunatic and Keeper has his modest daily meal of turtle, 
venison, and wine, not so crowded as yesterday, and not so noisy. 
At night, the theatre. More abstracted faces in it, than one ever 
sees at public assemblies ; such faces wearing an expression which 
strongly reminds Mr. Goodchild of the boys at school who were 
"going up next," with their arithmetic or mathematics. These 
boys are, no doubt, going up to-morrow with their sums and figures. 
Mr. Palmer and Mr. Thurtell in the boxes 0. P. Mr. Thurtell 
and Mr. Palmer in the boxes P. S. The firm of Thurtell, Palmer, 
and Thurtell, in the boxes Centre. A most odious tendency 
observable in these distinguished gentlemen to put vile construc- 
tions on sufficiently innocent phrases in the play, and then to ap- 
plaud them in a Satyr-like manner. Behind Mr. Goodchild, with 
a party of other Lunatics and one Keeper, the express incarnation 
of the thing called a "gent." A gentleman born; a gent manu- 
factured. A something with a scarf round its neck, and a slipshod 
speech issuing from behind the scarf; more depraved, more foolish, 
more ignorant, more unable to believe in any noble or good thing 
of any kind, than the stupidest Bosjesman. The thing is but a 
boy in years, and is addled with drink. To do its company justice, 
even its company is ashamed of it, as it drawls its slang criticisms 
on the representation, and inflames Mr. Goodchild with a burning 
ardour to fling it into the pit. Its remarks are so horrible, that 
Mr. Goodchild, for the moment, even doubts whether that is a 
wholesome Art, which sets women apart on a high floor before 
such a thing as this, though as good as its own sisters, or its own 
mother — whom Heaven forgive for bringing it into the world ! 
But, the consideration that a low nature must make a low world of 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 401 

its own to live in, whatever the real materials, or it could no more 
exist than any of us could without the sense of touch, brings Mr. 
Goodchild to reason : the rather, because the thing soon drops its 
downy chin upon its scarf, and slobbers itself asleep. 

Friday morning. Early fights. Gong-donkey, and correct cards. 
Again, a great set towards the races, though not so great a set as 
on Wednesday. Much packing going on too, up-stairs at the gun- 
smith's, the wax-chandler's, and the serious stationer's ; for there 
will be a heavy drift of Lunatics and Keepers to London by the 
afternoon train. The course as pretty as ever ; the great pin-cush- 
ion as like a pin-cushion, but not nearly so full of pins ; whole rows 
of pins wanting. On the great event of the day, both Lunatics 
and Keepers become inspired with rage ; and there is a violent 
scuffling, and a rushing at the losing jockey, and an emergence of 
the said jockey from a swaying and menacing crowd, protected by 
friends, and looking the worse for wear ; which is a rough proceed- 
ing, though animating to see from a pleasant distance. After the 
great event, rills begin to flow from the pin-cushion towards the 
railroad ; the rills swell into rivers ; the rivers soon unite into a 
lake. The lake floats Mr. Goodchild into Doncaster, past the 
Itinerant personage in black, by the way-side telling him from the 
vantage ground of a legibly printed placard on a pole that for all 
these things the Lord will bring him to judgment. No turtle and 
venison ordinary this evening ; that is all over. No Betting at 
the rooms ; nothing there but the plants in pots, which have, all 
the week, been stood about the entry to give it an innocent appear- 
ance, and which have sorely sickened by this time. 

Saturday. Mr. Idle wishes to know at breakfast, what were 
those dreadful groanings in his bedroom doorway in the night? 
Mr. Goodchild answers, Nightmare. Mr. Idle repels the cal- 
umny, and calls the waiter. The Angel is very sorry — had in- 
tended to explain ; but you see, gentlemen, there was a gentleman 
dined down-stairs with two more, and he had lost a deal of money, 
and he would drink a deal of wine, and in the night he " took the 
horrors," and got up ; and as his friends could do nothing with him 
he laid himself down and groaned at Mr. Idle's door. "And he 
DID groan there," Mr. Idle says ; " and you will please to imagine 
me inside, ' taking the horrors ' too ! " 

So far, the picture of Doncaster on the occasion of its great 
sporting anniversary, off'ers probably a general representation of 
the social condition of the town, in the past as well as in the present 
time. The sole local phenomenon of the current year, which may 
be considered as entirely unprecedented in its way, and which 

2d 



402 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

certainly claims, on that account, some slight share of notice, 
consists in the actual existence of one remarkable individual, who 
is sojourning in Doncaster, and who, neither directly nor indirectly, 
has anything at all to do, in any capacity whatever, with the 
racing amusements of the week. Ranging throughout the entire 
crowd that fills the town, and including the inhabitants as w^ell as 
the visitors, nobody is to be found altogether disconnected with the 
business of the day, excepting this one unparalleled man. He 
does not bet on the races, like the sporting men. He does not 
assist the races, like the jockeys, starters, judges, and grooms. He 
does not look on at the races, like Mr. Goodchild and his fellow- 
spectators. He does not profit by the races, like the hotel-keepers 
and the tradespeople. He does not minister to the necessities of 
the races, like the booth-keepers, the postilions, the waiters, and 
the hawkers of Lists. He does not assist the attractions of the 
races, like the actors at the theatre, the riders at the circus, or 
the posturers at the Poses Plastiques. Absolutely and literally, 
he is the only individual in Doncaster who stands by the brink of 
the full-flowing race-stream, and is not swept away by it in common 
with all the rest of his species. Who is this modern hermit, 
this recluse of the St. Leger-Week, this inscrutably ungregarious 
being, who lives apart from the amusements and activities of his 
fellow-creatures'? Surely, there is little difficulty in guessing that 
clearest and easiest of all riddles. Who could he be, but Mr. 
Thomas Idle ? 

Thomas had suffered himself to be taken to Doncaster, just as 
he would have suffered himself to be taken to any other place in the 
habitable globe which would guarantee him the temporary posses- 
sion of a comfortable sofa to rest his ankle on. Once established at 
the hotel, with his leg on one cushion and his back against another, 
he formally declined taking the slightest interest in any circum- 
stance whatever connected with the races, or with the people who 
were assembled to see them. Francis Goodchild, anxious that the 
hours should pass by his crippled travelling-companion as lightly 
as possible, suggested that his sofa should be moved to the window, 
and that he should amuse himself by looking out at the moving 
panorama of humanity, which the view from it of the principal 
street presented. Thomas, however, steadily declined profiting by 
the suggestion. 

" The farther I am from the window," he said, " the better, 
brother Francis, I shall be pleased. I have nothing in common 
with the one prevalent idea of all those people who are passing 
in the street. Why should I care to look at them ? " 

" I hope I have nothing in common with the prevalent idea of a 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 403 

great many of them, either," answered Goodchild, thinking of the 
sporting gentlemen whom he had met in the course of his wander- 
ings about Doncaster. " But, surely, among all the people who 
are walking by the house, at this very moment, you may find " 

"Not one living creature," interposed Thomas, "who is not, in 
one way or another, interested in horses, and who is not, in a 
greater or less degree, an admirer of them. Now, I hold opinions 
in reference to these particular members of the quadruped creation, 
which may lay claim (as I believe) to the disastrous distinction of 
being unpartaken by any other human being, civilised or savage, 
over the whole surface of the earth. Taking the horse as an 
animal in the abstract, Francis, I cordially despise him from every 
point of view." 

"Thomas," said Goodchild, "confinement to the house has begun 
to affect your biliary secretions. I shall go to the chemist's and 
get you some physic." 

" I object," continued Thomas, quietly possessing himself of 
his friend's hat, which stood on a table near him, — "I object, 
first, to the personal appearance of the horse. I protest against 
the conventional idea of beauty, as attached to that animal. I 
think his nose too long, his forehead too low, and his legs (except in 
the case of the cart-horse) ridiculously thin by comparison with the 
size of his body. Again, considering how big an animal he is, I ob- 
ject to the contemptible delicacy of his constitution. Is he not the 
sickliest creature in creation ? Does any child catch cold as easily 
as a horse ? Does he not sprain his fetlock, for all his appearance 
of superior strength, as easily as I sprained my ankle ! Further- 
more, to take him from another point of view, what a helpless 
wretch he is ! No fine lady requires more constant waiting- on 
than a horse. Other animals can make their own toilette : he 
must have a groom. You will tell me that this is because we 
want to make his coat artificially glossy. Glossy ! Come home 
with me, and see my cat, — my clever cat, who can groom herself! 
Look at your own dog ! see how the intelligent creature curry- 
combs himself with his own honest teeth ! Then, again, what a 
fool the horse is, what a poor, nervous fool ! He will start at a 
piece of white paper in the road as if it was a lion. His one idea, 
when he hears a noise that he is not accustomed to, is to run away 
from it. What do you say to those two common instances of the 
sense and courage of this absurdly overpraised animal ? I might 
multiply them to two hundred, if I chose to exert my mind and 
waste my breath, which I never do. I prefer coming at once to my 
last charge against the horse, which is the most serious of all, 
because it affects his moral character. I accuse him boldly, in his 



404 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

capacity of servant to man, of slyness and treachery. I brand him 
publicly, no matter how mild he may look about the eyes, or how 
sleek he may be about the coat, as a systematic betrayer, whenever 
he can get the chance, of the conMence reposed in him. What 
do you mean by laughing and shaking your head at me ? " 

" Oh, Thomas, Thomas ! " said Goodchild. " You had better 
give me my hat ; you had better let me get you that physic." 

"I will let you get anything you like, including a composing 
draught for yourself," said Thomas, irritably alluding to his fellow- 
apprentice's inexhaustible activity, " if you will only sit quiet for 
five minutes longer, and hear me out. I say again the horse is a 
betrayer of the confidence reposed in him ; and that opinion, let me 
add, is drawn from my own personal experience, and is not based 
on any fanciful theory whatever. You shall have two instances, 
two overwhelming instances. Let me start the first of these by 
asking, what is the distinguishing quality which the Shetland Pony 
has arrogated to himself, and is still perpetually trumpeting through 
the world by means of popular report and books on Natural His- 
tory ? I see the answer in your face : it is the quality of being 
Sure-Footed. He professes to have other virtues, such as hardiness 
and strength, which you may discover on trial ; but the one thing 
which he insists on your believing, when you get on his back, is 
that he may be safely depended on not to tumble down with you. 
Very good. Some years ago, I was in Shetland with a party of 
friends. They insisted on taking me with them to the top of a 
precipice that overhung the sea. It was a great distance off, but 
they all determined to walk to it except me. I was wiser then 
than I was with you at Carrock, and I determined to be carried to 
the precipice. There was no carriage road in the island, and no- 
body offered (in consequence, as I suppose, of the imperfectly-civil- 
ised state of the country) to bring me a sedan-chair, which is natu- 
rally what I should have liked best. A Shetland pony was produced 
instead. I remembered my Natural History, I recalled popular 
report, and I got on the little beast's back, as any other man would 
have done in my position, placing implicit confidence in the sureness 
of his feet. And how did he repay that confidence? Brother 
Francis, carry your mind on from morning to noon. Picture to your- 
self a howling wilderness of grass and bog, bounded by low stony hills. 
Pick out one particular spot in that imaginary scene, and sketch 
me in it, with outstretched arms, curved back, and heels in the air, 
plunging headforemost into a black patch of water and mud. 
Place just behind me the legs, the body, and the head of a sure- 
footed Shetland pony, all stretched flat on the ground, and you 
will have produced an accurate representation of a very lamentable 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 405 

fact. And the moral device, Francis, of this picture will be to 
testify that when gentlemen put confidence in the legs of Shetland 
ponies, they will find to their cost that they are leaning on nothing 
but broken reeds. There is my first instance — and what have 
you got to say to that ? " 

" Nothing, but that I want my hat," answered Goodchild, start- 
ing up and walking restlessly about the room. 

"You shall have it in a minute," rejoined Thomas. "My sec- 
ond instance " — (Goodchild groaned, and sat down again then) — 
" My second instance is more appropriate to the present time and 
place, for it refers to a race-horse. Two years ago an excellent 
friend of mine, who was desirous of prevailing on me to take regu- 
lar exercise, and who was well enough acquainted with the weak- 
ness of my legs to expect no very active compliance with his wishes 
on their part, offered to make me a present of one of his horses. 
Hearing that the animal in question had started in life on the turf, 
I declined accepting the gift with many thanks ; adding, by way 
of explanation, that I looked on a race-horse as a kind of embodied 
hurricane, upon which no sane man of my character and habits 
could be expected to seat liimself. My friend replied that, how- 
ever appropriate my metaphor might be as applied to race-horses 
in general, it was singularly unsuitable as applied to the particular 
horse which he proposed to give me. From a foal upwards this 
remarkable animal had been the idlest and most sluggish of his 
race. Whatever capacities for speed he might possess he had kept 
so strictly to himself, that no amount of training had ever brought 
them out. He had been found hopelessly slow as a racer, and 
hopelessly lazy as a hunter, and was fit for nothing but a quiet, 
easy life of it with an old gentleman or an invalid. When I heard 
this account of the horse, I don't mind confessing that my heart 
warmed to him. Visions of Thomas Idle ambling serenely on the 
back of a steed as lazy as himself, presenting to a restless world 
the soothing and composite spectacle of a kind of sluggardly Centaur, 
too peaceable in his habits to alarm anybody, swam attractively 
before my eyes. I went to look at the horse in the stable. Nice 
fellow ! he was fast asleep with a kitten on his back. I saw him 
taken out for an airing by the groom. If he had had trousers on 
his legs I should not have known them from my own, so deliber- 
ately were they lifted up, so gently were they put down, so slowly 
did they get over the ground. From that moment I gratefully 
accepted my friend's offer. I went home ; the horse followed me 
— ^ by a slow train. Oh, Francis, how devoutly I believed in that 
horse ! how carefully I looked after all his little comforts ! I had 
never gone the length of hiring a man-servant to wait on myself; 



406 THE LAZY TOUR OE TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 

but I went to the expense of hiring one to wait upon him. If I 
thought a little of myself when I bought the softest saddle that 
could be had for money, I thought also of my horse. AVhen the 
man at the shop afterwards offered me spurs and a whip, I turned 
from him with horror. When I sallied out for my first ride, I 
went purposely unarmed with the means of hurrying my steed. 
He proceeded at his own pace every step of the way ; and when he 
stopped, at last, and blew out both his sides with a heavy sigh, and 
turned his sleepy head and looked behind him, I took him home 
again, as I might take home an artless child who said to me, ' If 
you please, sir, I am tired.' For a week this complete harmony 
between me and my horse lasted undisturbed. At the end of that 
time, when he had made quite sure of my friendly confidence in his 
laziness, when he had thoroughly acquainted himself with all the 
little weaknesses of my seat (and their name is Legion), the smoul- 
dering treachery and ingratitude of the equine nature blazed out 
in an instant. Without the slightest provocation from me, with 
nothing passing him at the time but a pony-chaise driven by an 
old lady, he started in one instant from a state of sluggish depres- 
sion to a state of frantic high spirits. He kicked, he plunged, he 
shied, he pranced, he capered fearfully. I sat on him as long as I 
could, and when I could sit no longer, I fell off. No, Francis ! this 
is not a circumstance to be laughed at, but to be wept over. What 
would be said of a Man who had requited my kindness in that 
way ? Range over all the rest of the animal creation, and where 
will you find me an instance of treachery so black as this ? The 
cow that kicks down the milking-pail may have some reason for it ; 
she may think herself taxed too heavily to contribute to the dilu- 
tion of human tea and the greasing of human bread. The tiger 
who springs out on me unawares has the excuse of being hungry at 
the time, to say nothing of the further justification of being a total 
stranger to me. The very flea who surprises me in my sleep may 
defend his act of assassination on the ground that I, in my turn, am 
always ready to murder him when I am awake. I defy the whole 
body of Natural Historians to move me, logically, off the ground 
that I have taken in regard to the horse. Receive back your hat, 
brother Francis, and go to the chemist's, if you please ; for I have 
now done. Ask me to take anything you like, except an interest 
in the Doncaster races. Ask me to look at anything you like, 
except an assemblage of people all animated by feelings of a friendly 
and admiring nature towards the horse. You are a remarkably well- 
informed man, and you have heard of hermits. Look upon me as a 
member of that ancient fraternity, and you will sensibly add to the 
many obligations which Thomas Idle is proud to owe to Francis 
Goodchild." 



THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IDLE APPRENTICES. 407 

Here, fatigued by the effort of excessive talking, disputatious 
Thomas waved one hand hmguidly, laid his head back on the sofa- 
pillow, and calmly closed his eyes. 

At a later period, Mr. Goodchild assailed his travelling compan- 
ion boldly from the impregnable fortress of common sense. But 
Thomas, though tamed in body by drastic discipline, was still as 
mentally unapproachable as ever on the subject of his favourite 
delusion. 

The view from the window after Saturday's breakfast is alto- 
gether changed. The tradesmen's families have all come back 
again. The serious stationer's young woman of all work is shak- 
ing a duster out of the window of the combination breakfast-room ; 
a child is playing with a doll, where Mr. Thurtell's hair was 
brushed ; a sanitary scrubbing is in progress on the spot where 
Mr. Palmer's braces were put on. No signs of the Races are in 
the streets, but the tramps and the tumble-down carts and trucks 
laden with drinking-forms and tables and remnants of booths, 
that are making their way out of the town as fast as they can. 
The Angel, which has been cleared for action all the week, already 
begins restoring every neat and comfortable article of furniture to 
its own neat and comfortable place. The Angel's daughters (pleas- 
anter angels Mi-. Idle and Mr. Goodchild never saw, nor more 
quietly expert in their business, nor more superior to the common 
vice of being above it), have a little time to rest, and to air their 
cheerful faces among the flowers in the yard. It is market-day. 
The market looks unusually natural, comfortable, and wholesome ; 
the market-people too. The town seems quite restored, when, 
hark ! a metallic bray — The Gong-donkey ! 

The wretched animal has not cleared off with the rest, but is 
here, under the window. How much more inconceivably drunk 
now, how much more begrimed of paw, how much more tight of 
calico hide, how much more stained and daubed and dirty and dung- 
hilly, from his horrible broom to his tender toes, who shall say ! 
He cannot even shake the bray out of himself now, without laying 
his cheek so near to the mud of tlie street, that he pitches over 
after delivering it. Now, prone in the mud, and now backing him- 
self up against shop-windows, the owners of which come out in ter- 
ror to remove him ; now, in the drinking-shop, and now in the 
tobacconist's, where he goes to buy tobacco, and makes his way 
into the parlour, and where he gets a cigar, which in half-a-minute 
he forgets to smoke ; now dancing, now dozing, now cursing, and 
now complimenting My Lord, the Colonel, the Noble Captain, and 
Your Honourable Worship, the Gong-donkey kicks up his heels, 



408 THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO IBLE APPRENTICES. 

occasionally braying, until suddenly, he beholds the dearest friend 
he has in the world coming down the street. 

The dearest friend the Gong-donkey has in the world, is a sort 
of Jackal, in a dull mangy black hide, of such small pieces that it 
looks as if it were made of blacking bottles turned inside out and 
cobbled together. The dearest friend in the world (inconceivably 
drunk too) advances at the Gong-donkey, with a hand on each 
thigh, in a series of humorous springs and stops, wagging his 
head as he comes. The Gong-donkey regarding him with atten- 
tion and with the warmest affection, suddenly perceives that he is 
the greatest enemy he has in the world, and hits him hard in the 
countenance. The astonished Jackal closes with the Donkey, and 
they roll over and over in the mud, pummelling one another. A 
Police Inspector, supernaturally endowed with patience, who has 
long been looking on from the Guildhall-steps, says, to a myrmidon, 
" Lock 'em up ! Bring 'em in ! " 

Appropriate finish to the Grand Eace-Week. The Gong-donkey, 
captive and last trace of it, conveyed into limbo, where they can- 
not do better than keep him until next Race- Week. The Jackal 
is wanted too, and is much looked for, over the way and up and 
down. But, having had the good-fortune to be undermost at the 
time of the capture, he has vanished into air. 

On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Goodchild walks out and looks at 
the Course. It is quite deserted ; heaps of broken crockery and 
bottles are raised to its memory ; and correct cards and other frag- 
ments of paper are blowing about it, as the regulation little paper- 
books, carried by the French soldiers in their breasts, were seen, 
soon after the battle was fought, blowing idly about the plains of 
Waterloo. 

Where will these present idle leaves be blown by the idle winds, 
and where will the last of them be one day lost and forgotten 1 
An idle question, and an idle thought ; and with it Mr. Idle fitly 
makes his bow, and Mr. Goodchild his, and thus ends the Lazy 
Tour of Two Idle Apprentices. 



THE END. 



THE NOVELS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

New Edition, with all the Original Illustrations. 

i2mo. Cloth. $i.oo each volume. 

These volumes are in all cases accurate reprints of the texts of the first editions, 
and are accompanied by all the original illustrations. There is also prefixed in each 
volume a short introduction written by Mr. Charles Dickens, the novelist's eldest 
son, giving a history of the writing and publication of each book, together with 
other details, biographical and bibliographical, likely to be of interest to the reader- 



NOW READY. 



/ 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

50 Illustrations. 

OLIVER TWIST. 

27 Illustrations. 

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

44 Illustrations. 

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 

41 Illustrations. 

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 

97 Illustrations. 

BARNABY RUDGE. 

76 Illustrations. a,. 

SKETCHES BY BOZ. , 

44 Illustrations. 

GREAT EXPECTATIONS and 



HARD TIMES. 



DOMBEY AND SON. 

40 Illustrations. 
CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 

65 Illustrations. 

DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

41 Illustrations. 
AMERICAN NOTES and PIC- 
TURES FROM ITALY. 

4 Illustrations. 

LETTERS. 1833-1870. 

LITTLE DORRIT. 

BLEAK HOUSE. 

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 



j^TALE OF TWO CITIES and 
EDWIN DROOD. 



THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER and A CHILD'S HIS 
TORY OF ENGLAND. 

^ REPRINTED PIECES and THE LAZY TOUR OF TWO 
IDLE APPRENTICES. 

To be followed by 
V^ CHRISTMAS STORIES. 



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